v^ 'K< 



' A^^ 






''%. 4" 















v^" -<' 






..-^^ 



^A V^ 






^y 



:.<> %, 



,0 o. 






x"?-' 



V. ,s-\ 



aX^' 



,,0 o 






vf 






I 



_.jrf./r>>#?;.. ^ 





"^A 


v^^ 


c 




^^ 


°^. 








» 0^ 


:% 


\ 







>^. 






-9- 






v^" "^ 



'\v'' 



^Z, v-^' 



"■^■.^" ^ 



•J- V 



''^r*^/"- 



■V 









o 


1, 


.^^ 







"^A 


V^^ 




x° 


^x. 




A 




/ 










^^^ '^x 






v^. 



•x^'' '^^.- 



- ^ 












,0-' 






V' .V, 






»* I 



'X'- 



•A * s 1 1 * V^ 



\^ 









' » , v -^ ^ 



■^ ."^ 









C^^ 






Pv\' 



^^.. 















<J> '''c^ 



,>. 



r 












'<3 






'<^,/, ' * » 1 ^ ' 






^<' ,- 






\ 









.0^.. 






.<;■ 









c,'^'^ 



■^ 


















.s^ 



^, 



-/ 



^^^ ''t.. 




/ 



SIX STORIES 



AND SOME VERSES 



BY / 

ROBERT BEVERLY HALE 



^.j^./ 



of^ CO,v, 



"dec 12 '^^^^ 



J.M.BOWLES X'^^Y^ 



^A 



PUBLISHER— BOSTON 



r---- 



75 117^ 



Copyright, 1896, by Philip Hale 



ORDER OF CONTENTS 



Note 

My Brother i 

A Philosopher with an Eye for Beauty 3 

Harmony 43 

Too Much of a Bad Thing 45 

Francis Parkman 74 

The Two Sides of a Promise 75 

Sixteen 105 

Antaeus in Love 107 

The Chase 133 

A Middle-Aged Woman 135 

Stars 158 

Untaught by Experience 159 

A Brick Block 190 



The poem "My Brother," which might well 
have been written of him, was written by him- 
self on a brother who died in childhood. 



NOTE 



Robert Beverly Hale died on the 6th of Oc- 
tober, 1895. Few men have been loved as he was 
loved, in a very wide circle of friends. And such 
love was well deserved. It is to meet the wish 
of very dear friends, whom he loved very dearly, 
that this volume is published. 

He was born in Milton, Massachusetts, Sep- 
tember 5th, 1869. When he was but a few weeks 
old, the family removed to Roxbury, a part of 
Boston, and this was his home through his life. 
He passed through the regular courses of the 
Roxbury Latin School and of Harvard College, 
and graduated with credit at Cambridge in 1892. 

He was a general favorite, and so soon as he 
left college various attractive proposals were 
made to him by older friends who hoped to 
secure his intelligent and cordial service, as a 
teacher, as a director of philanthropic work, as 
an editor, or in other ways. But he had already 
determined to devote his life to authorship or 
literature. With him, a careful resolution was a 
determination; it meant something unchange- 
able. He immediately planned out a course of 
systematic study for his purpose, — a course such 
as the limitations of college life hardly permit; 
and to that course he devoted himself as stead- 
ily as if he had been at the call of a college bell. 

At the same time, and with the same stead- 
fastness, he assigned to himself duties in what 
is called charity, in the relief of the lonely, in 
help of the ignorant, and in citizenship. Best of 
all, he gave the light and joy to a happy home. 



As early as 1892 he began to send to editors 
such work as he thought worthy of print, in verse 
or in prose. In the autumn of 1894 he published 
a volume of poems, under the name "Elsie and 
Other Poems." His articles were received more 
and more favorably, by critics and by the pub- 
lic, and before he died it was clear that he had 
not mistaken his career. 

A few of his prose papers, and seven of his 
poems which were not in the volume published 
in 1894, make up the collection in the reader's 
hands. 

People who did not know him will differ as 
to the literary merits of these pieces. People who 
knew him will be glad to recognize the traces 
of his thoughtful observation, of his good-nat- 
ured humor, and of his love of all sorts and con- 
ditions of men. It is not for people who simply 
liked what he wrote that the book is published. 
It is dedicated to all that large circle who loved 
him for what he was. 

EDWARD E. HALE. 

Acknowledgment is due to the editors of "The 
New England Magazine," of "The Atlantic 
Monthly," of "Harper's Weekly," and of "The 
Youths' Companion" for the courtesy in allow- 
ing the reprint of stories or poems which ap- 
peared in these magazines. 



MY BROTHER 



If in my heart I mourn that he is sleeping; 
If I forget that he is in Your keeping; 
You will forgive my senseless, selfish weeping, 
Fighting against Your will ! 

Yes, I have asked, and You have said me nay: 
You would not let him live another day : 
Yes, You have given, and now You take away : 
Father, I bless You still. 

Father dear! I think that it would cheer him, 
If when I die I might be somewhere near him : 
May I not be where I can see and hear him, 

Waiting upon him still? 

Father, I do not wonder You should choose him, 
That in Your work You somewhere need to use 
him; 

1 am content — almost content — to lose him : 

Yes, for it is Your will. 



AMY 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH AN EYE 
FOR BEAUTY 



tSp7 



Arthur Sands stood in the drawing-room and 
waited for Miss Amy Lunt to come down and 
receive him. His cheviot shirt and gaiters sug- 
gested that he had ridden over to the Lunts' on 
either a horse or a bicycle; his erect carriage 
settled the matter in favor of the nobler animal. 
He was not an Apollo, but he had as much beauty 
as one expects of a man ; and though a closely 
cut beard covered the lower part of his face, the 
lines of his chin showed through sufficiently to 
prove that the covering was designed for an or- 
nament, not for a screen. Taken all in all, he was 
not the sort of man that most young women 
would have kept waiting for twenty minutes. 
But Sands had watched the minute-hand of the 
clock move over more than a third of its monot- 
onous race-track before he heard on the stairs 
the quick patter that he was waiting for, and it 
was perhaps five seconds later when Amy danced 
into the room with a step as light as Ellen Doug- 
las's, though far less dignified. "The sweetest 
girl in the world, and the last I should want to 
marry," had been Sands's description of her the 
night Ijefore. 

She saw in one instant that he was irritated, 
and in the next how to allay his irritation. She 
stopped in front of him, pouting, and would not 
shake hands. 

"I had on my brown dress, and I knew you 
didn't like it, so I changed it for this green one 
that you used to like, and now — and now" — 

3 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

Arthur's injured pride was turned in a moment 
to humble pleas for pardon. This was precisely 
what "the sweetest girl in the world" wanted, 
and having converted him, by the magic of one 
little lie, from an injured sovereign to an erring 
vassal, she gradually allowed him to assume a 
position of something like equality. 

"A philosopher with an eye for beauty" Ar- 
thur's most intimate friend had called him. An 
eye for beauty! It is a peculiarity that is apt to 
accompany great minds. You may be sure it was 
not Xanthippe's amiability which led the wisest 
man in the world to marry her. A philosopher 
with an eye for beauty sitting on a sofa with the 
sweetest girl in the world, and the last that the 
philosopher would want to marry! Good heav- 
ens! what can be done before it is too late? 

Before Miss Lunt sat down with the philos- 
opher, she stood for a moment looking out of the 
oriel window at the sunset. She was sensitive 
to beauty of all kinds, and as she gazed at the 
white stretch of snow and the pillar-like elms 
and the clear glow lighting up the winter sky 
behind, a serious look crossed her girlish face, 
a look which was all the more fascinating be- 
cause it was so rare. The next minute she had 
danced across the room and was beside her 
visitor on the sofa. 

They talked of people, then of other people, 
then of still other people; and then, strange to 
say, of books. Miss Lunt had an object in in- 
troducing this unusual topic; she generally had 
an object in what she said. 

"I don't like Meredith," she remarked; "he's 
too hard to understand. But why do I talk to 
you of such things? You look on me as a per- 
fect fool, a mere plaything, that it's fun to talk 
to just so as to hear what she'll say!" 
4 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

Like Mademoiselle Bernhardt and other great 
actresses, Miss Amy Lunt had real tears ready 
at a moment's notice, and she also resembled 
them in that she felt her pretended emotions 
almost as much as if they had been real. 

"I don't think you're a fool at all," Sands said, 
laying his hand on her arm. "I think you're the 
sweetest girl in the world!" 

"And the last that you'd want to marry !" Amy 
said. Oh, how fast epigrams fly! She buried her 
face in her hands, and sobbed like a little girl. 

It was a critical moment, and Amy knew it. 
Either he would put his arm round her and tell 
her that he did want to marry her, or else he 
would not. As a matter of fact, he did. 

"Why, the man's a fool!" I think I hear the 
reader say, flinging down my poor story in dis- 
gust. What's the matter, reader? Do you want 
all the people you read about to be sensible? 
No ? Only the heroes ? A sensible hero ! My dear 
reader, I really cannot waste time talking to 
you. 

The Sandses were one of the oldest families 
in the world. They traced their descent from sev- 
eral persons of eminence: from William Penn, 
from Roger Sherman, from King Egbert, and 
through the kings of Wales to a celebrated 
Hebrew whose genealogy joins right on where 
the Bible leaves off. So if the grand old gardener 
and his wife wanted to smile at the Sandses' 
ancestors, they were reduced to the humiliating 
occupation of smiling at themselves. Arthur's 
father and mother lived on Locust Street, in an 
orthodox Philadelphia house, red brick, with 
white doorsteps, door, shutters, and window- 
sill; only their house was twice as broad as its 
neighbors, and had two windows on each side 

5 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

of the front door. Mr. Sands had inherited a 
fortune from his father, and had invested it all 
in Pennsylvania Railroad stock. Can anything 
be conceived of more respectable, more honor- 
able, than the facts I have mentioned? Some 
envious cavilers, whose grandfathers were prob- 
ably fishmongers, pointed out that none of the 
Sandses had ever been known to do anything. 
But, as Arthur's father observed, what was there 
for them to do ? You might as well find fault with 
the man who stands on the summit of Everest 
because he doesn't climb. 

The Sandses were naturally irritated that the 
future head of their family should become en- 
gaged to a person named Lunt. The Lunts were 
not descended from any one; at least so Mr. 
Sands said, though such a statement would be 
difficult to believe on any less trustworthy au- 
thority. After a bitter mental struggle, Mrs. Sands 
(who had been a MacSparen) put her pride in 
her pocket, and asked Miss Lunt to spend a 
week in Philadelphia. Amy went, and had a 
very gay time. As she was staying with Mrs. 
Sands, and was engaged to Arthur, she was 
asked everywhere. She would have been, as 
Charlie Peters observed, even if her name, in- 
stead of being Amy Lunt, had been Lucy Fur. 
But Mrs. Sands's arctic politeness and the con- 
stant effort of always behaving a little better 
than came natural made Amy glad to get back 
to Hartford again, where every one did not have 
quite so many ancestors, and where Mr. Lunt 
was not in the least looked down upon because 
his occupation chanced to be that of selling 
boots. 

Arthur, as we have seen, had no especial rea- 
son for asking Amy to marry him, unless the 
fact that a woman is pretty and happens to be 
6 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

crying in your arms can be considered to con- 
stitute a sufficient reason for inviting her to be 
your wife. Miss Amy, on the other hand, had a 
great many reasons for wishing to marry Arthur. 
In the first place, he had a grand way about him, 
which he probably had inherited from King Eg- 
bert, or possibly from Abraham, and which had 
the effect of making all the other men in the 
neighborhood look small. Then he was good; 
and Amy had seen enough of the world to know 
that, next to distinction, goodness is the best 
quality to have in a husband. Then he was rich ; 
and I hope no one will think the worse of my 
heroine because she did not object to that. He 
was clever, too, though it was Amy's opinion 
that he possessed just enough weak points for 
a skilful wife to guide him as she liked. He was 
big and strong, and what woman does not like 
to have a husband who can knock people down ? 
Not that the accomplishment is of much prac- 
tical value, but it is nice to know that he can. 
Arthur belonged to one of the best families in 
Philadelphia, too, and although blood was not 
one of Amy's hobbies, she was far from under- 
valuing it. But these were all general reasons. 
What really brought Amy to the point was the 
fact that she found herself practically engaged 
to two young men at the same time, and dis- 
covered that the simplest way out of her diffi- 
culty was to marry a third. 

The engagement was not a long one. "Peri- 
culum in mora," and Amy did not want to lose 
Arthur. She took advantage of some of his non- 
sense about how he wished he could be married 
to-morrow, and named an early day, so that 
the whole engagement did not last two months. 
There was a grand wedding in the CentreChurch, 
and Mr. Lunt had his annual shop-worn sale a 

7 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

month earlier than usual, so as to meet the ex- 
traordinary expense. He confessed that he spent 
more than he could afford, to prove to the Qua- 
kers that Philadelphia was not the only place 
in the world. But as Mr. and Mrs. Sands were 
the only Philadelphians who took the trouble 
to come, and as both of them were hopelessly 
convinced of the truth of the theory he wished 
to disprove, he felt that a large part of his out- 
lay had been wasted. However, his daughter 
was married, and that was one reason why he 
had spent the money. 

As to the two young men to whom Amy had 
previously plighted herself, they took different 
courses. I need hardly mention that they both 
sent her ruinously magnificent presents; that 
form of biting revenge is, I believe, always re- 
sorted to under the circumstances. If they im- 
agined Amy's false heart to be chilled to remorse 
by these posthumous offerings of affection, they 
were egregiously deceived. If she ever thought 
of Franklin McElroy while using his beautiful 
silver breakfast service, it was only to reflect 
that she had got out of a bad scrape extremely 
well. And John Johns's great Dutch clock could 
never tick any self-condemnation into the place 
where Amy 's heart ought to have been. McElroy 
afterwards married his typewriter, and never 
ate his breakfast without inwardly cursing his 
folly when he saw his wife pouring out his cof- 
fee from a copper coffee-pot. Johns married an 
elderly widow, whose charms were the more 
permanent as they were chiefly pecuniary. To 
returntoAmy's wedding, McElroy was present, 
and even went so far as to kiss the bride, who 
naively observed in a whisper that it wasn't the 
first time. Johns, a wiser man than his colleague 
in misery, stayed away. 
8 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

It seems to be a generally accepted theory that 
a story in which the hero and heroine die im- 
mediately after their marriage is a tragedy. I 
feel that even the reader, for whose mental pow- 
ers, though I have recently taken occasion to 
slight them, I really have a high regard, is of 
this opinion. But did it ever strike the reader 
what sort of a married life Hernani and Dona 
c>ol would have passed, or how Romeo and Ju- 
liet would have fared at breakfast, that criterion 
of conjugal happiness? Does Romeo's behavior 
toward Rosaline (very likely a nicer girl than 
Juliet) augur well for his constancy towards Mrs. 
Montague (born Capulet)? Can you imagine 
greater torments than those which the romantic 
mountain ranger Hernani would have endured if 
condemned to a lifelong sentence of fine clothes, 
blank verse, and a faultless wife? Before you 
accuse a story of ending badly, just think how 
it might have ended if it had not ended as it did. 
Given two such creatures as Romeo and Juliet, 
I think Shakespeare did remarkably well. 

As fortune, good or bad, would have it, Arthur 
Sands and his wife did not meet with violent 
deaths shortly after their marriage. When their 
wedding journey was over, they came back to 
Hartford, and took up their quarters in the large 
house in Prospect Street which Arthur had pur- 
chased some months before. Like a man who, 
merely because he felt like jumping, has leaped 
an abyss so wide that he finds himself unable 
to recross it, Arthur was now in an excellent 
position to contemplate the advantages of the 
ground he had just left. 

There are three stages of love, through which 
some persons pass, and some do not. The first 
is just love, pure and simple; the second is love 
returned, or engaged love; and the third is le- 

9 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

gaily permanent, or married love. Fortunately, 
most people are more in love after they are en- 
gaged than they were before their engagement, 
and still more in love when they are married, 
— at least for a while; so much so that those of 
their friends who are sensible avoid them for a 
time. But as Arthur and Amy had never, strictly 
speaking, been in love at all, their love could 
not grow any more than zero can grow, no mat- 
ter how many times you keep multiplying it. 
Arthur kept multiplying his love for Amy by 
all sorts of things, good resolutions, prayers, 
thoughts about her beauty, kisses, everything 
you can think of, and it stayed just the same; 
that is to say, it was non-existent. It was a pity 
that it did not amount to something at first ; even 
a very small fraction would have been sufficient. 
It is wonderful how large a little bit of a frac- 
tion will grow, if you only multiply it enough. 
As to Amy, I cannot exactly tell you what she 
was thinking about. I can tell you just what 
she did, and that will have to suffice. You see 
she was a very peculiar person, and her motives 
and aims were so utterly astounding and so in- 
volved that even if I could unravel them, I doubt 
if the reader could comprehend them. Amy had 
her wooden bowl at last; but the trouble with 
wooden bowls is that there are very few uses 
to which they can be put. They have a disagree- 
able way, too, of being split here and there ; and 
often you find the workmanship very rough and 
incomplete, when you get the bowl into your 
possession and can examine it closely. And 
when you are pretty well out of conceit with it, 
you catch sight of another wooden bowl, — such 
a lovely one; and although it is on an upper 
shelf, so that you cannot see it very well, yet 
you are confident that this one is exquisite in 
JO 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

design and perfect in execution ; then you get 
chairs and boxes and step-ladders,and you climb 
and climb, and either you get it or you don't; 
but in either case, the first wooden bowl is rel- 
egated to its uses as a bowl, and, while it some- 
times proves serviceable, it never calls forth any 
more enthusiasm on your part, though some- 
times the neighbors admire it. 

Arthur Sands was an intellectual man, and 
was extremely fond of reading. He possessed 
that aristocratic literary taste which leads some 
men to prefer honestly the books which the ma- 
jority of mankind has agreed in preferring. He 
was continually readingthe English classics. He 
liked Mr. Richard Harding Davis well enough, 
but he preferred Shakespeare. Before his mar- 
riage he spent a large part of his leisure time in 
reading; and one of the things he was proud of 
in Amy was her fondness for books. He looked 
forward to passing many happy evenings with 
her, in front of a blazing fire, reading Scott or 
Hawthorne aloud. Amy encouraged him in this 
vision of mild pleasure, though she had but little 
expectation of ever seeing it realized. 

Amy liked to read, too ; but Shakespeare and 
Milton and Scott had no charm for her. She had 
even graduated from Thackeray, or thought she 
had. In common with many other persons, she 
had somehow acquired the sensation of having 
read all the standard books without really ever 
having been through the tedious process of read- 
ing them. She had said so many times that she 
had read Paradise Lost that she felt just about 
as if she had. But to any one who knew her well 
— Arthur did not, at the time of his marriage — 
the idea of Amy Lunt sitting down to read Mil- 
ton, or Carlyle, or Macaulay, or Matthew Ar- 
nold, or Green, or even Washington Irving, was 

n 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

too absurd to be taken seriously. The truth is, 
she had never read ten pages of any one of those 
authors. She Hked Shelley, and had read a little 
of Keats ; but Swinburne was the poet that she 
doted upon. The swooning luxuriousness of his 
verse enchanted her, and his utterly perverted 
moral standard was a sauce which seasoned 
long pages of verses which would otherwise 
have contained little to interest her. Edgar Allan 
Poe was the only American author that she 
cared for. She read principally in French, and 
books which Arthur would not have allowed in 
his house before his marriage were strewn freely 
about his tables after it. The truth was. Amy 
liked an author with a highly stimulated imag- 
ination ; and if it happened to be diseased, why, 
so much the better. 

"Now what shall we read ?"said Arthur cheer- 
fully, as he and his wife sat in front of the fire, 
the second evening after their return from their 
wedding journey ."Jane Austen, or George Eliot, 
or The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table?" 

"I don't care, Arthur, — anything. I feel rather 
tired to-night." 

"My poor child! But it will rest you to hear 
a little reading. I'll tell you: I'll pick out some- 
thing and begin to read it, and then you can guess 
what it is." 

He went to a bookcase, took down a book, 
opened it, and began to read : — 

"'W^ith a single drop of ink for a mirror, the 
Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any 
chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. 
This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. 
With this drop of ink at the end of my pen I 
will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jon- 
athan Burge, carpenter and builder in the vil- 
t2 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

lage of Hayslope' — Now you know," Arthur 
said, interrupting himself. "Of course the 'Hay- 
slope' would give it away, even if you hadn't re- 
membered Jonathan Burge. Didn't you always 
feel sorry for Mary Burge? Adam was so dis- 
agreeable to her." 

"Yes, he was horrid," Amy said, wondering 
what the book could be. Then she boldly ob- 
served, "Adam was a pretty mean fellow, any- 
way, I think." 

Arthur looked at her to see if she was joking. 
"You don't really mean that, do you, Amy?" he 
inquired. 

"No, of course I didn't," Amy rejoined hur- 
riedly. "Go ahead, Arthur." 

Arthur read very well, and was, naturally, a 
little proud of the unusual accomplishment. 
When he finished the first chapter, he paused 
for a moment for Amy to say how much she 
liked the book, and also, perhaps, how well she 
thought he read. 

"That's the stupidest stuff I ever heard," she 
said, yawning. 

Arthur bit his lip ; but he was a person who 
seldom lost his self-control, — not often enough, 
perhaps. 

"You're tired, Amy," he said, rising, and strok- 
ing her hair. "You ought to go to bed, dear. We 
can go on with the book to-morrow night." 

"Oh no, I'm not especially tired," Amy replied 
coolly. "I'm only bored with that book. I'll tell 
you what we'll do. You sit and read that, and 
I'll run upstairs and get Une Femme. Then we'll 
both be happy." 

Again Arthur kept his temper. "Very well," 
he replied, and, returning to his seat, he began 
to read to himself. Amy brought her novel down- 
stairs, and there for a couple of hours they sat; 
13 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

Arthur reading a book describing the manHest 
of men, Amy a work whose title should have 
been A Woman, Little as You Might Think It. 

And so ended the reading aloud that poor 
Arthur had imagined as one of the pleasantest 
parts of his married life. Hundreds of stories, 
poems, plays, and histories, all narrowed down 
in an instant to one short chapter in a novel ! 
"The way of the world," Arthur said bitterly to 
himself. He was perfectly right. It is the way 
of the world that if you marry a woman who 
does not like reading aloud, you must read by 
yourself. There were plenty of women in Hart- 
ford who liked reading aloud. Why did not Ar- 
thur marry one of them? 

There are some marriages in which the man 
and the woman seem perfectly suited to each 
other, the virtues of the one successfully bal- 
ancing the faults of the other ; enough similarity 
to make life pleasant,enough divergence to make 
it interesting, enough love and trust to utterly 
snow under any misunderstanding that may 
arise. These are the marriages which have sug- 
gested to an optimistic world that matches are 
made in heaven. There are other matches which 
would seem to have been arranged in a very dif- 
ferent locality. There are cases where it would 
seem to a man's friends that he has deliberately 
united himself to the most unsuitable helpmate 
that could possibly be found ; that he would have 
done far better if he had gone to a dance and 
asked the first girl who came downstairs to mar- 
ry him. Perhaps he would have done better, but 
probably not. In the first place we must remem- 
ber that a man cannot choose a wife from among 
all the girls he knows, but only from among such 
as will have him ; that narrows most of us down 
to an absurd degree. Secondly, there are influ- 
H 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

ences constantly at work in married life to bring 
out the hidden differences in two natures. Your 
friend might not get on so well with that first 
girl who came downstairs, after all. To look at 
them and hear them talk, you would think they 
were well suited to each other. They are both 
tall and handsome, and they are talking enthu- 
siastically about skating. Yet she detests smok- 
ing, and will not have it in the house; and he 
must have his three cigars a day, and certainly 
will not pull his easy-chair outdoors to smoke 
them.She is an ardent prophetof woman's rights, 
and he has brought his fist down on the table 
and sworn that his wife, at least, shall never 
vote. Imagine him, with a cigar in his mouth, 
telling her to stay at home when she wants to 
go to a rally! 

Arthur Sands, then, might have done worse. 
I happen to know the disagreeable things that 
occurred in his married life; but worse things 
might have occurred if he had married some one 
else. Yet Arthur was a fine man in his way, and 
I cannot help thinking that there are women in 
the world who could have made him happy. 
Years before he married Amy, he had asked an- 
other woman to marry him. She might have 
made him a better wife, but she refused him, 
while Amy, as we have seen, accepted him a 
little before she was asked. The trouble with the 
marriage of Amy and Arthur was that the qual- 
ities in her which had induced him to propose 
— so far as his proposal was voluntary — were 
not those which he cared anything about after 
they were married. Chief amongthem was beau- 
ty ; but beauty may change to ugliness when we 
know the key to a face, just as ugliness may 
change to beauty. So soon as we have seen a 
beautiful face with an evil expression upon it, 

J5 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

we do not care so much about looking at it. If 
we see such an expression often, the face be- 
comes hateful to us. The mouth, however it may 
smile, looks cruel, the nose proud, the eyes de- 
ceitful. An ugly face lighted up by goodness is 
good enough for me ; and many a man will come 
home to-night and kiss such a face, and thank 
God that some haughty beauty refused him ; and 
after supper he will sit in front of the fire, and 
watch the dear old eyes, and the dear turned-up 
nose, and the good generous mouth, with a very 
different feeling from that with which Arthur 
watched Amy. For beauty is not in itself a vir- 
tue, but only an ornament to virtue. Snakes are 
beautiful, but people don't like to look at them. 
They are graceful, but people don't like to watch 
their motions, except when they are going away. 
Almost any one would prefer to look at a toad, 
which, though ugly, has no disagreeable char- 
acteristics, except the unproved and certainly 
involuntary fault of givingpeople warts. Beauty, 
like illustrious lineage, makes nobility nobler, 
but it goes about as far towards improving wick- 
edness or incompetency as a bright sun and a 
blue sky go towards making the day on which 
you have lost your mother seem agreeable. 

Arthur was a religious man ; not one of those 
who obtrude Scriptural texts and spiritual ad- 
monitions into his conversation, but one who 
prayed every night on his knees, and a good deal 
on his feet in the daytime; one who went to 
church every Sunday and made good resolu- 
tions, and who carried them out pretty consci- 
entiously during the week; one who did not 
groan when he heard a man swear, and who 
could pound out an oath or two himself when 
it was absolutely necessary, but who had the 
i6 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 
accomplishment of making slanderers feel un- 
comfortable, and who came down like a falling 
house on mean or dirty conversation. He never 
appeared to better advantage than when he lost 
his temper ; and as I have already hinted, it was 
a pity he lost it so seldom. Religion meant a 
great deal to him: it had determined his deci- 
sion in every important crisis of his life except 
his marriage, which, as we have seen, may be 
considered, like a thunderstorm or an earth- 
quake, as a phenomenon of nature, something 
beyond his control. 

As to Amy's religious views, they are worth 
dwelling on, because I conceive them to be very 
similar to those of a great many young ladies 
of the present day. Without ever having taken 
the trouble to investigate the doctrines of any 
religious belief, she pronounced them all to be 
absurd. Now there is no fault to be found with 
a man who has sounded every faith to its depths, 
and who, dissatisfied with all, becomes a free- 
thinker. He may be unfortunate, but he does not 
appear to be in fault. Amy, however, having 
sounded nothing except a trumpet of defiance 
to all recognized faiths, became what may be 
termed a free non-thinker. The curious part of 
it was that she had a vague feeling of superi- 
ority to those who, like Arthur, belonged to some 
established order of religious belief. It is a very 
noticeable fact that Colonel Ingersoll, Professor 
Huxley, and others who attack the inspiration 
of the Biblearemore familiar with thebook than 
many of those who hold it in higher honor than 
they. Amy knew nothing about the Bible, except 
that she did not believe in it. 

"Aren't you coming to church with me?" Ar- 
thur said, one Sunday morning. "You haven't 
a headache, or cold, or anything. No excuse. 
Come on. Amy!" 

17 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

Amy thought the struggle might as well take 
place now as at any time. 

"No, I don't believe I'll come," she said lan- 
guidly. "And to tell you the truth, Arthur, I don't 
intend to do much going to church, ever. It 
doesn't do me a bit of good; it does me harm to 
hear a man say a lot of stuff with impunity, when 
I could shut him up easily enough if he'd only 
let me answer him. I don't object to other peo- 
ple's going, if they want to ; but as for me, it does 
me lots more good to sit at home and read some 
serious book that makes me think." 

Arthur looked at the book in her hand. It was 
a volume of short stories by Guy de Maupas- 
sant. He left the room without speaking. 

The Sandses had preserved the old Quaker 
custom of having a silent grace at meals. Arthur, 
who had been accustomed to it ever since he 
was a baby, tried to introduce it into his own 
household; but after a few weeks of endurance 
Amy's patience gave out. 

"Come Arthur," she said, "you can keepquiet 
all you want, but I'm not going to sit like Pa- 
tience on a something or other, just because you 
happen to be thanking God! It seems to me the 
worst of all times to thank him, anyway, before 
you know whether the dinner's going to be good 
or not!" 

The silent grace was discontinued. 

Arthur was sadly disappointed because his 
wife proved to be utterly without religion of any 
kind ; but he had no real right to his sense of in- 
jury. She was not a sham; she had not secured 
him by false pretenses. He married her because 
she was pretty and charming; and she certainly 
was both. He did not find out, after they were 
married, that her hair was false or that her face 
was enameled; she could be just as merry and 
18 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

winning after their marriage as she was before. 
The trouble was in him. He suddenly changed 
his standards. Before marriage he cared for 
nothing but beauty and charm ; afterwards he 
gave no thought to those qualities, but was all 
for intellect and religion, and because Amy did 
not possess those peculiarities he was disap- 
pointed in her. But she had never pretended to 
be wise or religious. He was like a man who 
purchases an English thoroughbred because it 
is handsome and has magnificent paces; and 
after bringing it home, becomes accustomed to 
its beauty and grace, but feels indignant with it 
because it cannot haul stones or work at the 
plough, and wishes he had bought a cart-horse. 
There are all sorts of horses, and all sorts of 
women; and people ought to get the kind they 
want. 

One of the problems which young married 
people have to face is the question of how much 
they shall go into society. Shall they go out to 
dinner three nights in a week, and go out im- 
mediately after dinner the four other nights? 
Or shall they stay quietly at home six nights, 
and go to the theatre the seventh ? If they are 
very fond of each other, they generally like stay- 
ing at home ; if they are not, they like to go where 
they can see some one else. 

It soon proved that Arthur, who, though he 
never, strictly speaking, loved Amy, yet had a 
very respectable imitation of love for her, pre- 
ferred to stay at home, while Amy wanted to 
go out as often as possible. Now, though Arthur 
had a much stronger character than his wife, it 
was very noticeable that, in their disputes, she 
almost invariably got her v/ay. The truth was 
that Arthur was so heavily handicapped that he 
had no chance. He had to consider not only 

J9 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

what he wanted, but how far he could go on his 
side of the argument without bringing on some 
sort of rupture between Amy and himself. Amy, 
on the other hand, thought of nothing but what 
she wanted, and depended entirely on him to 
guard against ruptures. He was the stouter 
swordsman, but she fought with a rapier, while 
he was obliged to use a foil with a button on 
the end. Buttons sometimes come off, though, 
and then — one, two, three ! a long carte thrust, 
and half a foot of crimsoned steel shows well 
enough whose wrist is the stronger. 

As yet, however, the button was securely fas- 
tened to Arthur's foil. 

"Why, Arthur, aren't you dressed yet? Didn't 
you know we'd accepted for the Trimbles' 
dance? " 

"Oh, Amy, have we got to go out to-night? 
Why, we were at the Danverses' last night, and 
the Winthrops' the night before ; and to-morrow 
night, you know, we've got tickets for Julia 
Marlowe. Do let's stay in one evening in the 
week!" 

"Now, upon my word, Arthur, this is too ri- 
diculous! For Heaven's sake, stay at home, if 
you want to! I can tell them you're sick; or 
perhaps we can invent a lie that will suit your 
conscience better than that one. We need'nt 
stick close together all the time. I like parties, 
so I'll go to them. You like staying at home and 
reading, so you needn't go. If you'd rather be 
with your book than with me, all right. Only 
don't blame me if — if" — 

Here Amy burst into tears : whether they were 
involuntary or manufactured I shall not pre- 
tend to say. At any rate, they answered their 
purpose. Arthur embraced her, and told her 
that he would go ; and after a suitable amount 
20 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

of April weather the sun came out from behind 
the clouds, and Arthur received a kiss and Amy's 
forgiveness. 

A series of victorious battles does not always 
mean a victorious war. Louis XIV. kept whip- 
ping William of Orange time after time, and yet, 
when it was all over, somehow or other Wil- 
liam had come out ahead. Amy and Arthur had 
had a great many encounters, and Amy had 
been victorious every time ; but, as was the case 
with the Grand Monarch, her supplies were 
getting exhausted. As a last resource, she had 
always been able to conquer Arthur's resistance 
by crying; but crying is like everything else, — 
people don't think much of it when they're used 
to it. A rainstorm in the Desert of Arabia would 
drive the natives wild with awe and delight; 
but a rainstorm in Boston only makes the in- 
habitants feel like swearing. 

Arthur was becoming annoyingly callous, so 
that Amy had to keep her rapier very sharp, and 
prod him more and more vigorously with it. 
Still, she was able to hold him pretty well in 
order as yet. He went to parties more and more 
unwillingly; but he went. The parties werepleas- 
ant enough, and he would have enjoyed going 
out, say, once a week ; but to listen to Mrs. Potts 
of Hartford, and Miss Dillingham of Farming- 
ton, every night, when he might be listening to 
Shakespeare and Goethe and Victor Hugo, was 
beginning to bore him beyond endurance. The 
button on the end of his foil was getting loose. 

Then a sudden check came to war and rapiers 
and foils and hostile feelings. Amy announced 
to Arthur that a child was to be born to them. 
From that moment till months after the baby 
was born, insubordination on Arthur's part was 
at an end. He could endure anything so long 

2J 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 
as there was a reason for Amy's querulousness 
and selfishness. He recognized that, in such a 
position, husband and wife have each a part to 
play: she has her sufferings to endure; he, her 
complaints. It is the custom of a not quite heart- 
less world to draw a generous line through the 
weaknesses and follies, the fault-finding and 
irritability, of a woman who is waiting for her 
child to be born. Let us follow the world's ex- 
ample. 

The baby proved to be a girl. She was named 
Caroline, after Mrs. Sands senior. "Your moth- 
er'U probably do more for her than mine," Amy 
had said to Arthur. 

Arthur was prodigiously fond of the child, and 
Amy really wanted to be. She would watch her 
husband with a wistful expression as he made 
a fool of himself over the baby, and almost wish 
that she could be silly like that, too. But her 
efforts to become fond of Caroline, if efforts she 
made, were unsuccessful; and many and many 
a time she was out at a dinner-party when Arthur 
was helping the nurse put the baby to bed. For 
you can't begin loving all of a sudden, any more 
than you can become a great general without 
preparation. If you want to be a distinguished 
commander, you must go to West Point, and 
then be a lieutenant for five years, and a captain 
for ten, and a major for three, and so on. You 
can't go through all the ranks in five minutes, 
like Fritz in La Grande Duchesse. And if a 
mother is to love a child with the real true 
mother's love, she must have loved her own 
mother, and her father, and her brothers and 
sisters, and lots of friends, and her husband more 
than all the rest put together. She can't begin 
without practice. Amy had an instinctive affec- 
tion for her child, there was no doubt about 
22 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

that; the same affection that a lion, or a dog, 
or a snake, for aught I know, has for its young. 
She could not bear to hear it cry, and when it 
was vaccinated she flew at the doctor when she 
saw blood on the little arm. But she had not the 
slightest wish to nurse the child, so that, on the 
v/hole, perhaps, her affection was not quite the 
same as that of the lioness. 

Children often renew the bond between hus- 
band and wife, so that those who are drifting 
apart are drawn together again. But little Caro- 
line was not successful as a mediator. Arthur 
would sit with her on his knee, and talk to her 
complainingly about Amy. "She's gone away 
and left us all alone, baby, just because she 
wants to dance with that Colonel Harrison, 
who's on the governor's staff. I'll colonel him, 
won't I, baby? But before that, she's going to 
dine at the Trimbles'. The dinner'U be over just 
about when you go to bed and then Mrs. Potts 
will sing; but never you mind, baby, for papa'U 
sing to you, and papa can sing better than she 
can. Isn't it funny that mamma likes to hear 
Mrs. Potts sing?" 

From this elegant oration it can be seen that 
Arthur was beginningto deny himself the pleas- 
ure of escortinghiswifeto evening engagements. 
Amy was not entirely sorry, for she could be- 
have more as she liked when he was not with 
her. She was growing afraid of Arthur, just be- 
cause he never did complain when there was 
so much to complain of. She wished she knew 
what was going on inside of him. If she had only 
heard him say to baby that he would "colonel" 
Colonel Harrison, she might have known better 
what to do ; but baby never told her. 

It is remarkable to what an extent people can 
be talked about and never know it. Colonel Har- 

23 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 
rison and Mrs. Arthur Sands were both well up 
in the gossip of Hartford; but there was one 
flirtation of which neither had ever heard any 
one speak, and that was their own. Colonel Har- 
rison was a very handsome man, — his enemies 
said he was pretty, — with a charmingly pink 
complexion and beautifully kept finger-nails. 
He was, to Amy's mind, the most entertaining 
talker in Hartford ; at any rate, he was possessed 
of much more sympathy of a certain kind than 
Arthur was. For if you told Arthur the story of 
an adventure in which you had got the better 
of some one in rather a mean way, the greatest 
approbation you could expect from him was a 
grunt; whereas the colonel would be intensely 
amused, and had a very polite way of alluding 
to the anecdote at some future occasion. Then 
the colonel was aman of leisure, and could come 
and call on Amy while Arthur was stupidly earn- 
ing his (and her) living. He had the glamour of 
being considered fast, too, — at least, he was so 
considered in dear, slow-going old Hartford, — 
and with some ladies that is a great point. It is 
a strange fact that many women rather like a 
man to be fast ; when, if they knew the exact 
things he did, they would be apt to change the 
adjective to "vulgar." One of the most fascinat- 
ing fast men I know gained a part of his repu- 
tation for speed by sitting on a curbstone and 
throwing the mud of the gutter over his head. 
No woman would have been especially pleased 
with his conductifshehadhappenedtobeunder 
his escort at the time. Yet this is, comparatively 
speaking, a most innocent and even refined oc- 
cupation for a fast man who really deserves his 
reputation. Of course there is no use taking the 
reader into a pigsty, but just multiply that mud- 
throwing incident by fifty, dearest reader, and 
24 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 
then, if youhappen to be a young woman, exam- 
ine the result, and make up your mind whether 
you want to flirt with a person who does such 
things, or not. The trouble seems to come from 
our having a fatal tendency to call a spade a 
diamond. True, the ace of spades is the hardest 
card in the packto distinguish, and it is certainly 
a most elegant-looking one; but it is a spade 
just the same, and we might as well call it so. 
We are apt to say of a man, *'He's fast, you 
know, but he's a good-hearted fellow." That is 
all very well if we know what "fast" means. 
To the average woman, it means getting a little 
flushed with champagne once in a while, or go- 
ing to the theatre in rather low company. To 
me, my friend in the gutter would seem to form 
rather a good allegorical picture of a fast man, 
if he had been engaged in throwing some of the 
mud at other people, and only a portion on his 
own head. 

One day Arthur set out for Philadelphia, and 
at New Haven received a telegram from his 
father informing him that the journey was un- 
necessary. So, like King Shahzenan and other 
husbands of flirtatiouswives,hecamehome very 
unexpectedly. He was not in the least surprised 
to see Colonel Harrison's dog-cart before the 
door; he had half expected that. But when he 
entered the house, he saw something better cal- 
culated to astonish him. It was a warm day in 
June, so that he passed into the parlor through 
the glass door, which stood open. With their 
backs toward him stood Amy and Colonel Har- 
rison: she reading a letter; he, with his arm 
around her, apparently trying to kiss her cheek, 
an operation which she dexterously avoided by 
quick movements of her head, while she con- 
tinued to read the letter. 

25 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

It was really comical when Colonel Harrison, 
hearing a step behind him, turned round and 
encountered Arthur. The fascinating lover was 
so utterly and evidently inferior in every respect 
to the injured husband that even Arthur him- 
self saw the humor of the situation. The pretty 
little fast man and the splendid great respectable 
one stood face to face for a moment ; and at last 
Amy saw the difference. The beautiful little col- 
onel scowled, and tried to look down his antag- 
onist; and the general effect was very much as 
if the leader of the german should endeavor to 
look down Prince Bismarck. The contrast was 
too much for Amy, and, though her feelings were 
wrought to the highest pitch, she burst into a 
peal of half-hysterical laughter. 

Arthur had smiled grimly at first, but he soon 
became seriousagain. Heandthe colonel looked 
at each other for a moment, and then Arthur 
said, "Will you come outside on the piazza, Col- 
onel Harrison? I have something to say toyou." 

Colonel Harrison tried to speak. His voice 
failed him. He held himself very straight as he 
followed Arthur; but, in spite of all he could do, 
a look of terror crossed his face, which Amy did 
not fail to detect. She supposed that Arthur was 
goingto chastise him in some way; but she made 
no attempt to interfere. "The little fool!" she 
said to herself. "He's in for it now, and I'm glad 
of it!" And then she began to wonder how she 
should get out of her own scrape. 

Outside on the piazza everything went very 
quietly. 

"I want to ask you to take your leave now, 
Colonel Harrison," Arthur said, "and also to 
request you not to come here again. Will you 
oblige me so far?" 

"Do you mean to kick me out of the house?" 
the colonel sputtered. 
26 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

"Only if you won't go any other way," Arthur 
replied. "When I came into the room there, my 
first impulse was to throw you out of the win- 
dow ; but the next moment I realized that the fact 
that you were small and weak was no reason why 
I should attack you, when I might have been 
afraid of a stronger man than I. However, it's 
only fair to warn you that my patience is going 
fast." 

Colonel Harrison scowled again, and walked 
away with the same dignity which a boy exhib- 
its when he scornfully leaves his comrades, — 
very grand, but expecting a snowball in the back 
of his head at any minute. 

When Arthur came back into the room, Amy 
was crying. She ran up to him and caught his 
hands in hers. "I haven't done anything wrong, 
Arthur!" she protested. "Honestly I haven't. 
You don't think I have, do you?" 

Arthur looked at her coldly. "Why, no," he 
said deliberately. "I don't believe you ever did 
more than flirt with the little man. You haven't 
enough of a heart to forget yourself entirely. 
Amy. Oh no, I don't believe you went very far 
with the colonel. He isn't exactly the sort of man 
to be jealous of." 

Amy looked imploringly up into his face. 
"Then you'll forgive me, won't you, Arthur? 
And it will all be the way it used to be when we 
were first married, and we both loved each other 
better than all the world?" 

"I can't recall the time you speak of," he said. 
"As to forgiving you, I've just learnt what sort 
of a woman you are. Amy, and I can't unlearn 
it merely because you go down on your knees 
and beg me to. I shan't bear any malice or keep 
alluding to Colonel Harrison, I can promise you 
that, at any rate. But you needn't bother to cry; 

27 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

it doesn't have any effect on me." 

Amy looked at him with wide-opened eyes. 
"You've never talked to me so before," she said 
in a frightened tone. "I'm afraid you don't care 
for me any more, Arthur." 

"No," he answered, "I'm afraid I don't." 

The button had come off the foil. 

After a littlepause, during which there seemed 
to be a great deal of electricity in the air, Arthur 
spoke again: "It's only fair to tell you, Amy, 
that I've told Colonel Harrison not to come here 
any more. If you meet him anywhere else, per- 
haps you will be so good as not to know him." 

Amy looked up at the stern face before her. 
Was this her husband? "Very well," Arthur, she 
replied; "just as you say." 

"And now," he went on, "we're both a little 
over-excited, so I guess I'll go in town. No, not 
now. Amy !" As she endeavored to kiss him, he 
put her aside, though not unkindly. Then, stop- 
ping at the door, "Will you be at home to din- 
ner to-night?" 

"I will if you want me to." 

"Thank you, I should prefer it." With that he 
went out. 

Amy flung herself into an armchair and tried 
to think. The events of the last half-hour had so 
completely changed her position that she could 
not accommodate herself to her new surround- 
ings. Her husband proved to be a different sort 
of man from what she had expected. She felt like 
Baron Munchausen's horse, who thought he was 
tied to a small post, and the next morning found 
himself hitched to a steeple. 

The truth is — and every woman must learn it 

sooner or later — a man is a very different sort 

of person when he's in love with you and when 

he isn't. No autocracy can be more complete 

28 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

than that which a woman exercises over the man 
who loves her, even if his love, like Arthur's, is 
really only an extremely good imitation of love. 
A smile or a frown can raise him to the clouds, 
or cast him down into the pit ; a nod is sufficient 
to send him on the most difficult and dangerous 
enterprise ; the least unkindness gives him pain ; 
he throws away his armor,and exposes his naked 
breast to the arrows of her scorn and the pois- 
oned darts of her satire. His nature bends the 
knee to hers, and she gives him agony or bliss 
with a word. It matters not how noble he is, or 
how frivolous she. That only accentuates mat- 
ters. The nobler he is, the lowlier he kneels ; the 
more frivolous she,the more she delights to scorn 
him. But when he awakes from his dream, mark 
the contrast. He recovers entirely from his in- 
fatuation in an instant; she cannot help caring 
for him a little ; nay, she is overcome by a strange 
feeling of respect for this slave who has suddenly 
become her equal, and who bids fair to be her 
master. Her downfall is the more terrible because 
of the loftiness of her seat. In vain she snatches 
up the small weapons which she has used so long 
that she is unaccustomed to anything more for- 
midable. Her arrows and darts drop harmless 
from her hands as she hears the first boom of 
cannon sounding from the hostile camp. She 
never knew he had any artillery ! 

Of course, if they are not married, the man 
merely goes away, after having given her a few 
good showers of grapeshot, and tells the next 
woman he falls in love with that he never really 
cared for her predecessor, — "at least, not the 
way I care foryou !" Butif they aremarried,they 
have to make up their minds to it ; and now that 
all alluring mist is dissipated, and the two see 
each other as they are, the late autocrat is apt 

29 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

to go to the wall. There was no more tempor- 
izing in Arthur's policy toward his wife. The 
stronger nature asserted itself at last, and Amy 
always gave in, and never knew why. 

"Well, Amy, aren't you coming to church?" 

"I've got a headache, Arthur!" 

A look. 

"I'll go if you want me to." 

"I think it would be better." 

When there was a rebellion, it was like the 
French trying to get out of Sedan, — something 
that was understood beforehand by the enemy 
and guarded against. 

"I won't have Annie sent away!" 

"I've already sent her away." 

"I'll have her back again." 

"I told her that she was not to come back. I 
don't think she will." 

"She's the only maid I ever had that I liked!" 

"She's a bad woman, Amy ; and she isn't corn- 
ing back again. Will you please give me a cup 
of coffee?" 

"Arthur!" — with tears — "you have no right to 
treat me so! I'm going to go over to mamma's 
to-day and live with her till you learn to — to" — 

"Your mother agrees with me that it was fool- 
ish of you to go over there the other time, and 
she haspromisedmeshe won't takeyou in again. 
Come, Amy, do you mean to give me my cof- 
fee?" 

Silence, while the coffee is poured out. 

"By the way. Amy, I think we've had about 
enough of these outbreaks of yours. They don't 
improve your appearance or my temper. Just 
think it over, will you? I guess we can get on 
without them. Well, I'm off now. Good-by." 

Amy looked at him as he walked toward the 
30 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

door. "Aren't you going to kiss me good-by, 

Arthur?" 

He came back and kissed her. 

Amy felt a Httle ashamed of asking for that 
kiss, but somehow she could not get on without 
one when Arthur went away. It made her feel 
respectable. She did not exactly love Arthur, but 
shedepended on him, and shekept admiring him 
more and more. 

As to Arthur, hisenforced sternness woreupon 
him. Like the marksman who cuts his arm and 
dips each bullet in his own blood, in order to in- 
sure his aim, he paid for the complete control 
that he gained over his wife by a constant drain 
on his own high spirits and energy. Yet the Col- 
onel Harrison affair, which might have ended 
in Amy's utter ruin, compelled him to see that 
he must keep her under his thumb if he would 
save her from herself. Amy throve under the 
treatment. Sometimes it almost seemed as if she 
really loved her husband; certainly she came 
nearerloving him than she had ever been to lov- 
ing any one else.The new system was a success. 
But Arthur's was a nature formed for pleasant, 
easy, genial intercourse; and though it had a 
background of uncommon strength, he hated to 
use the strength all the time, — just as an orches- 
traleaderwouldhatetogive a concert performed 
exclusively by his bass viols and trombones. 

When a man falls sick, his friends look at his 
illness indifferent ways. Someregard it as a mis- 
fortune, others as a fault. The larger part of the 
population of the world, being liable to illness 
themselves, have a deep sympathy for all sorts 
of suffering, no matter what foolishness brought 
it about; as a mother rubs her child's knee, and 
kissesandcoddles him, even though he fell down 

3J 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 
while climbing after the jam pot. But there is a 
school of reasoners, and I think a growing one, 
which regards illness as merely the natural re- 
sult of imprudence. 

"I have a toothache." 

"Howlong is it sinceyou went to the dentist?" 

"Three years." 

"Then I'm not sorry for you. If you had gone 
every six months, as I have, you would not be 
suffering now." 

This logic, besides being disagreeable, is not 
so sound as it at first appears; for, granted that 
the sufferer is in fault, is that any reason why 
we should not be sorry for him? Nay, is it not 
a reason why we should be sorrier for him than 
ever? I am sorry fortheman unjustly condemned 
to prison, but I am far sorrier for the man who, 
besides being compelled to carry chains about 
with him, is also obliged to carry the conscious- 
ness that he deserves them. 

Arthur belonged distinctly to the sympathetic 
school. One day when the streets were drowned 
in melted snow. Amy went out in her low shoes 
and caught a bad cold. Arthur had warned her 
several times against tempting Providence in 
justthatway; butonreturninghomeherefrained 
from uttering the four monosyllables the use of 
which I have sometimes suspected to be the un- 
pardonable sin. In fact,he was very much fright- 
ened, though he did not tell Amy so; for he had 
noticed, what she herself had never observed, 
that hers was a constitution which gave no sign 
of weakness till a total collapse was at hand. She 
was like a ship with its flag nailed to the mast, 
so that if you see the flag go down you can be 
sure the ship is going down, too. Arthur had a 
headache every week or so, and caught cold half 
a dozen times in a winter; but he had not been 
32 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 
really sick since he could remember. Amy never 
had headaches — except the convenient kind 
which all women have, save you, dear reader. 
Only twice since Arthur had known her had she 
felt any physical discomfort, and each time she 
had been seriously ill. So when he came home 
from the office, and she told him she had a cold, 
he made her go to bed at once, and sent for the 
doctor; and when the doctor said he was afraid 
it was pneumonia, Arthur was not surprised. 

It was a great relief to him to be able to be- 
have pleasantly to Amy, and not to have to keep 
bullying her all the time. After all, there are few 
pleasures like waiting on a sick person ! We do 
not mind being called martyrs and saints when 
we do it, but secretly we are perfectly conscious 
that we like it; or, if we are not conscious of it, 
we become so as soon as any one else proposes 
to take our place. For some inscrutable reason, 
v/e come to love the invalid all the more because 
he is so foolish and impatient and exasperating, 
just as I am very sure the angels in heaven are 
a great deal fonder of us because we are not mix- 
tures of Socrates and Job and Moses. A great 
deal of Arthur's old feeling for Amy came back, 
now that she was pale and suffering and had 
lost her good looks. As for her, she was one of 
the sick people who are seized with a mania for 
having one particular person always near. She 
could hardly eat or go to sleep when Arthur was 
out of the room. The trained nurse was with her 
at night, but Arthur had to be with her almost 
the entire day. Her sister Isabel came in to help 
take care of her, but she had to go away again. 
Amy wanted Arthur. The poor girl had become 
possessed with the idea that she would not live, 
and, in spite of the doctor's prohibition of talk- 
ing, she insisted on telling her husband a great 

33 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 
many things, foolish things that she had done. 
She told him about the other two engagements 
by which she had bound herself just before she 
engaged herself to him, and about a great many 
other things, some of them wicked, and some 
only silly. And Arthur would answer her con- 
science-stricken whispers with a pressure of the 
hand and a kiss now and then, and would ab- 
solve her from all her sins and follies as if he 
had been a father confessor. Once they talked 
of Colonel Harrison. Arthur told her how he had 
met the colonel one dark night on Asylum Ave- 
nue, and how the little man had crossed to the 
oppositeside,notsupposingthatArthurhadseen 
him. It was pathetic to hear Amy's weak little 
laugh at the valiant colonel's discomfiture.Then 
Arthur told how he had helped Harrison to get 
a diplomatic appointment; and how the colonel 
had thanked him, and apologized for what he 
termed his blackguardly conduct; and how Ar- 
thur had asked him to come and call on Mrs, 
Sands when she was on her feet again ; and how 
the tears had come into the colonel's eyes, and 
he had assured Arthur that he had never met 
such a perfect gentleman. Then Amy laughed 
once more, and said she should like to see the 
little fool again, if Arthur would be there too ; 
but as to being on her feet any more, she never 
expected that. Sometimes Amy had the baby 
brought in, and spent a long time looking first 
at Caroline and then at Arthur,andthen at a look- 
ing-glass in her hand, trying to see how much 
the child looked like Arthur, and how much like 
her. And each time she was delighted, for the 
baby looked exactly like Arthur, and acted like 
him, too, and apparently had nothing of Amy in 
her composition. 
There is nothing in books that strikes us as so 
34 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

sudden, and usually so inartistic, as the occur- 
rence of a death. "Orlando died." Our feeling 
commonly is, "I don't believe it." The truth is 
that no amount of preparation can properly fur- 
nish the mind for the reception of such a revo- 
lutionary statement. That Orlando, whose pro- 
gress I have perhaps traced for years, whom I 
have learned to admire, with whom I have al- 
most identified myself , should come to a full stop, 
should disappear never to return, is too much 
for my imagination. "Orlando's death is too sud- 
den," I write in my criticism of the book. Yet the 
suddenness, the shock, the bad taste, if I may 
say so, of the thing, may all be observed far more 
strongly in real life. "Your cousin Margaret is 
dead," some one says. "I don't believe it," is 
again the first responsethat comes intomy mind, 
though I may not utter it. It is hard to assimilate 
the fact that she is dead : it is indigestible, and 
the acids of the mind must work on it a long time 
before they master it. After hearing that cousin 
Margaret is dead, I might perhaps be surprised 
if I were to meet her on the street; but I am al- 
most equally surprised not to meet her. 

Amy did not live three weeks from the day 
on which she fell ill. The doctor had been anx- 
ious fromthefirst, forshe would not fight against 
her sickness; she seemed perfectly content to 
die. All that she felt uneasy about was the pain 
and trouble and anxiety she had given Arthur 
ever since they were married; and he forgave 
her all these things so often that after a time she 
appeared to think of them less. They had one 
little talk about religion. She asked him what he 
believed ; and with manly awkwardness he told 
her his simple faith. She said she would try to 
believe that, too ; for whether it was true or not, 
if it was good enough for him,it was good enough 

35 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 
for her. She kept her consciousness to the end, 
and just before she died she stretched out her 
arms to Arthur. He kissed her, and no doubt the 
poor girl felt that that kiss was the seal of his 
forgiveness for all the trials she had brought up- 
on him ; for her face was happy after that, and 
she smiled at him as he sat by the bedside and 
held her cold fingers in his great, warm, manly 
hand. Then the life gradually faded out of her 
face, and the cold fingers grew colder, and with 
one final labored throb the foolish, false, repen- 
tant little heart stopped beating. 

So Arthur was left alone : an older man than 
the Arthur Sands who asked Amy Lunt to marry 
him; a wiser man, perhaps, — perhaps not. For 
experience does not teach; it merely accentuates. 

Amy's sister Isabel had been, as a child, one 
of the most affectionate and unconscious little 
persons that ever lived. Amy had spoiled her. 
But, spoiled as she was, the old affection looked 
out of her great brown eyes, though it might not 
be in her heart ; and whether she was uncon- 
scious or not, she looked as if she were. Just as 
Bernadotte or Davout learned from Napoleon 
how to move armies, so she had learned from 
Amy how to move men up and down on her 
board, with all the heartlessness and much of 
the skill of a professional chess-player. And if 
the board fell off her lap, and the pieces tumbled 
into the fire, why, at the worst she could get a 
new set and start a new game. 

Isabel had tried her hand at a little mild flir- 
tation with Arthur while he was still married ; 
but Arthur was too good a husband for that sort 
of thing ; and Amy, who could see about as far 
into a stone post as most people, suggested to 
36 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 

Isabel that if she wanted hunting, she had bet- 
ter hunt something else, and leave her sister's 
tame buffalo alone. After Amy's death, however, 
things were different. Arthur did not deceive 
himself about Amy : he knew that he had been 
very unhappy with her. But he was just as 
wretched now that his home was broken up as 
if it had been a happy one. He was much at the 
Lunts', and Isabel's sympathy and sisterly ten- 
derness were a great comfort to him. 

It is one of the curious things in life how sure 
we are of the future, and how seldom the future 
bears us out. "I shall love you forever," the boy 
says to the girl. What does he know about "for- 
ever" ? It is easier to say than "for five minutes," 
and certainly sounds more romantic; but, as a 
matter of fact there are a great many five min- 
utes in the world, and very few forevers. The 
strange part of the boy's statement is that he 
gives a promise which depends for its fulfillment 
on forces over which he has absolutely no con- 
trol. If he had said, "I shall kiss you once a day 
forever," or even, "I shall think of you forever," 
he might have made a good try at it ; but "I shall 
love you forever"! He might as well say, "I shall 
have it sunny weather forever." This statement 
might possibly be true,if the boy lived in the Des- 
ert of Sahara ; but, true or false, he puts it in a 
very foolish way, for he has nothing to do with 
the sun or the rain any more than he has with 
the motions of his own heart. If a rainstorm came 
up he could not send it away ; and if he suddenly 
stopped loving his sweetheart, no amount of try- 
ing could make him begin again. 

So when a man loses his wife. If any individ- 
ual could be found at the same time impudent 
and courageous enough to ask him, the day after 
the funeral, if he intended to marry again, the 

37 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 
widower would probably awake from his stupor 
of sorrow long enough to kick the meddler down- 
stairs. But if he could be prevailed upon to give 
a definite answer, he would say "No! Never! 
I have enough to do to sorrow over what I have 
lost!" Yet the chances are even that he will be 
married again in two years. The truth is, we don't 
know anything about how we shall feel in the 
future. I know of a lady who woke up one morn- 
ing and found that she had forgotten everything 
that had ever happened to her. The same thing 
happens to us all every morning, to a lesser de- 
gree. A man may say, * ' I shall mourn for my wife 
just as deeply twenty years hence as I do to- 
day ;" but no amount of saying so will make him 
do it, and nothing else will make him do it, either. 
We can regulate the mourning on our hats, but 
not that in our hearts. 

Amy's illness had brought on an Indian sum- 
mer to Arthur's affection, and he never loved her 
so dearly as the day she died. He grieved for her 
deeply and truly, and added to his grief by vain 
regrets because he had not been to her a better 
husband. It would not be true to say that he de- 
termined never to marry again : he never thought 
about it, any more than he thought about com- 
mitting murder. It was one of the impossibilities. 
For some months he went nowhere except to the 
Lunts'. He felt drawn to them because they 
shared his grief. They were very kind to him, 
especially Isabel, who always knew by instinct 
just what he wanted. W^hen he came in to have 
her sing and play to him, he did not need to ask 
her; she knew what he had come for, and she 
knew just the sort of things he would like tohear. 
For though she had outgrown her old, simple- 
hearted, affectionate nature, she could reassume 
it when she chose ; just as the world- worn actress 
38 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 
plays Camille or Fedora, and yet has not forgot- 
ten her first part of Little Bo-Peep, though she 
has not acted it since she was an innocent child. 

There are degrees of grief just as there are de- 
grees of joy; and Arthur was never less miser- 
able than when he sat listening to Isabel's sing- 
ing. No one ever sang with deeper feeling than 
Isabel; and I, for one, do not blame Arthur for 
thinking that she had a warm tender heart. It 
gave him pleasure to look at her, too : she was 
beautiful at the piano. Her wonderful wavy light- 
brown hairand her innocent faceformeda quaint 
but fascinating contrast to the unrelieved black 
of her dress. A beautiful woman is never so beau- 
tiful as when in mourning; the holiness of sor- 
row gives her an added charm. When the play- 
ing was over,Isabel would talk to Arthur,or more 
often would listen to him while he told her stories 
of Amy, and how things would have gone so 
much better if only he had acted rightly. Then 
she would comfort him as only an affectionate 
woman can, and he would shake his head, but 
smile at the same time, and feel glad he came. 

So Arthur became dependent upon Isabel. It 
was not that he had forgotten Amy : it was be- 
cause he liked to talk and think about her that 
he wanted to be with Isabel, — at least it was so 
at first. Afterwards Isabel's own charm began 
to take possession of him. When he was con- 
scious of it, he tried to fight against it ; very much 
as a fly first begins operations for avoiding a spi- 
der's web after he is already securely caught in 
it. One day Arthur realized that he was walking 
up the Lunts' avenue so that he might see Isa- 
bel, and not so that he might see Amy's sister. 
He stopped on the piazza, irresolute. Perhaps 
he had better not go in. "Arthur !" came a silver 
voice from the parlor window. And the jump that 

39 



A PHILOSOPHER WITH 

his heart gave had very little to do with the wom- 
an who had been Mrs. Arthur Sands one short 
year ago. 

Arthur was not entirely deceived about Isa- 
bel's character. Skillful as she was at dissimula- 
tion,she could not entirely hide her real self from 
a man who saw her almost every day, and who, 
though preoccupied, was far from stupid. But 
Arthur was a person whose thoughts did not nat- 
urally run towards the faults of the girl he was 
in love with. Though a good orthodox Congre- 
gationalist in his religious faith, he was a Uni- 
tarian in love matters : he was a firm believer in 
heaven, and did his best not to think about any 
other place. He was obliged to see that Isabel 
was sometimes cross and overbearing to her 
mother, but he thought the less of it because she 
was always sunny and considerate to him. Sev- 
eral times he could not help noticing that her 
sense of honor (a virtue the possession of which 
is difficult to simulate) was not up to his own 
high standard. This was hard on Isabel, for, as 
regarded her sense of honor, by judicious infla- 
tion she had managed to make something per- 
ilously like nothing assume really respectable 
proportions ; and for Arthur to notice that it was 
wavering, and did not seem to be very solid, 
merely showed that he was hard to satisfy. He 
perceived more than once that she was talking 
to produce a certain effect, and not because she 
really believed the things she said. She saw that 
he noticed this, but she could not always guard 
against it. It is hard to pretend to be truthful when 
you are not, because the essence of truth is that 
you are not pretending. 

Isabel knew a great deal better than I do how 
Arthur ought to be managed, but if I might pre- 
sume to criticise one little point, I should sug- 
40 



ill 



AN EYE FOR BEAUTY 
gest that she need not have given herself so much 
trouble to seem better than she was. The gist of 
the matter was right here : Arthur came to see 
her because she was sympathetic, affectionate, 
fascinating, and pretty ; and if he came to see her 
enough, he would marry her. He did not come 
to see her because she had a high sense of honor 
or a great regard for truth. Unfortunately, those 
qualities do not draw well. In a wife they are of 
inestimably more importance than fascination 
or beauty ; but no one ever went to call on a girl 
because she did not tell lies. 

When it came to the point, everything went 
quietly enough. Arthur and Isabel were in the 
parlor together ; Isabel standing in the oriel win- 
dow looking at the sunset, while Arthur looked 
at her. Suddenly it came over him that he would 
give anything in the world for the right to hold 
that girl in his arms and kiss that cheek which 
would have tempted a saint. He rose to his feet. 
"Isabel!" he said. 

When she turned and their eyes met, she knew 
that the battle was won. 

What's the matter, reader? There you are 
again, banging my poor story against the table ! 
What do you mean by calling Arthur a fool and 
an egregious ass ? I'd let you know that my hero 
was neither! He was a man who, having done 
a foolish thing, was suddenly brought back to 
the point he started from, and, having another 
opportunity, did it again. Most of us would. We 
don't get much wiser as we get older. Arthur 
Sands was a good man and a sensible one. He 
had one weak point : he was peculiarly sensitive 
to the charm of an attractive and beautiful wom- 
an. Carried away by his feelings, he married a 
foolish, heartless girl, and spent three unhappy 

41 



years with her. When it was all over, and he 
had another chance given him, he was carried 
away by his feelings again, and this time mar- 
ried a girl a little less foolish and a little more 
heartless than the other. But she was fascinating, 
— there was no doubt about that. It was all per- 
fectly natural. Unwise he was, perhaps, but who 
is not unwise in that way? Do you think you 
would have escaped, reader, or would have 
wanted to escape, if Isabel had really under- 
taken to marry you? 



li 



HARMONY 



m. 



HARMONY 



She is drawing near 
With the bearing proud 

Of a queen without fear 
In a noisy crowd, 

With a cheek as fair 
As a sunset cloud 

And a rose in her hair. 

Her face is pure 

As evening skies, 
A miniature 

Of Paradise, 
And the thoughts that grace 

Her honest eyes 
Are as pure as her face. 

She smiles as we meet. 
Smiles, and takes wing. — 

All is gone but a sweet 
Remembering 

Of who was there 
And a breath of spring 

From the rose in her hair. 



HELEN 



TOO MUCH OF A BAD THING 



It was growing dark. Helen sat on the divan 
in the bow-window working at her embroidery 
and occasionally looking up Beacon Street at 
the fading sunset. When it was too dark to work, 
she conscientiously laid aside her embroidery 
and turned her attention altogether upon out- 
doors. Helen was looking especially well that 
evening.She had on a dark green silk waist made 
on such a generous plan and with such ample 
sleeves that her extreme slenderness was not so 
obvious as usual. As she looked down into the 
street, her delicately aquiline nose and fine fore- 
head and chin stood out almost like a silhouette 
against the brightness of the window, and the 
last glow of the sun made a halo of her golden 
hair. Helen always looked her best when she 
was alone : she never would have sat at the win- 
dow in such a picturesque way if any one had 
been looking at her. 

The maid came in to light up the room, and 
to bring in a letter and the newspaper. When 
the curtains and lamps had been attended to, 
and the servant had taken her departure, Helen 
sat down to read the letter.Her chair was a com- 
fortable one, but she was one of those women 
who have to sit up straight no matter what sort 
of chair they are in. She recognized her mother's 
handwriting. 

"My dearest Helen," Mrs. Vail wrote, "Do 
you not realize the position that your father and 
I are in ?Your father is weaker than ever : his par- 

45 



TOO MUCH OF 

alysis IS growing upon him fast. My nerves are 
gradually giving way, and no wonder. I have 
begged Alice to come and help me, but she says 
her husband and children need her so much that 
she cannot leave them. She says she thinks noth- 
ing but a matter of life and death ought to take 
a wife away from her husband any way, that her 
first duty is to him; and in fact she intimates that 
when she took George for a husband, she said 
good-bye to her father and mother. 

"You have no such absurd views, I'm sure, 
Helen. As if a husband would die if his wife were 
away from him for three months ! I think it's of- 
ten a good thing for both, just as it's a good thing 
for a man to be away all day at his v/ork. But 
not to do too much talking, you really must come 
out to Sacramento and help me with your father, 
Helen. You, at least, have no children to keep 
you in Boston. I can stand the strain no longer, 
and it may be the last chance you will have to 
see your father. Do not advise with Robert as 
Ahce did with her husband. Tell him that you 
must go, and do not let him see that there is any 
other course open to you. That is the way I al- 
ways did with your father, and he invariably gave 
in; and I'm sure until he broke down so com- 
pletely there never was a happier marriage. 

"Above all, as I said before, do not feel badly 
about leaving Robert. I am a great deal older 
than you, Helen, and I know a good many things 
about men that nothingbut experience will teach. 
A husband is often relieved when you go off and 
make a visit for a short time : your father never 
objected to my doing so, and sometimes I act- 
ually thought he seemed to be the better for it. 
Of course Robert will lament in that impulsive 
way of his ; but impulse is born in a moment and 
dies as quickly. 
46 



iA BAD THING 

' "That is settled then ; and I shall see you be- 
'fore a month is out. It is such a distance that 
'you had better come for at least three months, 
though perhaps you might say to Robert 'two 
months and possibly more.' That would be noth- 
ingbutthetruthj'msure.l'mperfectly delighted 
at the thought of seeing you. Your father, al- 
' though his mind is going fast, has somehow got 
jthe idea that you are coming, and if you were to 
stay away, I could not answer for the conse- 
quences. But you will come, I'm certain. Re- 
member it's almost six months since we have 
seen you. 

"Give my best love to Robert. 

"Your affectionate but exhausted 

"Mother." 

Mrs. Vail wrote an abominable hand, and it 
I took Helen some time to make the letter out. 
' When she had finished it, however, she attacked 
it again bravely, and this time had but little dif- 
ficulty. After the second reading, she let it fall 
in her lap, and sat looking at the fire until she 
I heard a latch key in the hall door and rose to 
greet her husband. 

I Robert Hazlitt was tall and nearly as straight 
[as his wife, though his erect carriage was evi- 
! dently the result of an almost perfectly symmet- 
rical physique, while hers looked as if it were 
jthe inheritance of two or three generations of 
New England consciences. He had a large head, 
and his features were decidedly broad, though 
by no means unpleasant. Like half the young 
imen one meets, he was losing his hair at the 
temples; but his clean-shaven face seemed so 
t young for a man of thirty that his high temples 
gave his head an intellectual look which it might 
.have missed without them. Altogether he was a 

47 



TOO MUCH OF 

charming looking fellow, the kind of husband 
that one likes to see come in at the door. 

As soon as he saw his wife he sprang forward 
and kissed her. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you 
again!" he said, giving her a very boyish hug. 
"When I stopped painting and got up from my 
chair I was almost dead — like those Assyrians 
in the Bible: 'And when they arose they were 
all dead corpses!' Come, Nelly, you must love 
me a little and give me a good kiss, for I'm so 
tired I can barely stand." 

Helen disengaged herself from his embrace 
without giving him the good kiss that he re- 
quested, and her husband had to sit down with- 
out it. She took a chair at some distance from 
him and began to work at her embroidery. 

"Have you heard from The American Ar- 
tists?" she inquired. 

"Yes. Two of the pictures have been taken; 
but the third, the one of Moonlight on the Corn- 
field, was rejected." 

"What induced you to send that, Robert? It 
wasn't worthy of you. So fantastic ! I never liked 
that picture." 

"Now, Nelly, don't be stern with me," said 
Robert, crossing the room and sitting beside his 
wife. "Oh, it's so nice to be home again!" he 
continued, lolling back in his chair and stretch- 
ing out his legs. "Nelly, you don't know how I 
missed you last year when you were away! But 
now we won't either of us ever go away again !" 

Helen moved uneasily in her chair. "Oh, that 
reminds me," she said. "I'm sorry, Robert; but 
it's absolutely necessary for me to go to Sacra- 
mento next Monday. Mother really needs me 
to help take care of Father. I'm sorry, but really 
there are no two ways about it." 

She looked at him defiantly, as if expecting 
48 



tf I 



A BAD THING 

him to battle with her resolution, but Robert sat 
perfectly still except that his face fell; and she 
saw, rather to her disgust, that there were tears 
in his eyes. He took her hand. 

"I'm disappointed, of course, Nelly," he said 
tenderly. "I hoped we should have a cosy little 
winter this year all by ourselves; and you've 
made our little apartment such a paradise that 
I must confess I've beendreaming of howhappy 
we should be together after having been separ- 
ated nearly all last year. But don't think I want 
to interfere with anything you decide to do, dar- 
ling. If you think it's your duty to go, I won't 
say a word ; and I wouldn't if you said you were 
going away to-morrowf or sixy ears,though hon- 
estly, Nelly, I think I should die if you were gone 
as long as that." 

"It's only for two months and perhaps a little 
more,"said Helen stiffly, taking up her embroid- 
ery again. She usually froze when her husband 
grew warm. 

"Oh well, that's not so bad as it might be," 
poor Robert observed,tryingto be cheerful. "But 
Nelly, why didn't your mother ask Alice?" 

"She did, but AHce wouldn't go." 

"^A^hy not?" 

"She said she didn't think she ought to leave 
her husband." 

"Well, but you might — ' ' here Robert stopped, 
biting his lip. "You might have said the same 
thing," he was going to say; and Helen knew 
it. She blushed and answered his observation 
as if he had completed it. 

"Alice has her children, you know," she said. 

Robert did not pursue the subject. They sat 
in silence for perhaps five minutes, Robert look- 
ing lazily across the room at the fire, and Helen 
working at her everlasting embroidery. At last 
Helen looked up at the clock. 

49 



TOO MUCH OF 

"You've only twenty minutes to get on your 
dress suit," she remarked. 

"Oh, Nelly," her husband whinedin anaughty 
boy's voice. "It's only Mary who's coming to 
dinner, isn't it? Mary won't care." 

"I care," said Helen. 

Robert grew cheerful with an effort. "Well, 
Nelly," he said, kissing his wife, "I'm sure I'd 
be a brute if I didn't do as you wanted when 
you're only going to be here three days longer. 
Must I shave, too?" 

"Yes, dear, I think you'd better," Helen re- 
plied, smiling in spite of herself at the wry face 
her husband made as he rushed from the room. 

Mary Aikenside made her appearance not 
many minutes after Robert leftthe roomto dress. 
She was one of the plain girls who lookas if they 
were extremely nice, and as a matter of fact are 
so. Nowadays when people are reading charac- 
ter from faces, hands, and feet for aught I know, 
beauty of expression, beauty that means good- 
ness, is beginning to count for something. To 
onewhocouldjudgethe character from the outer 
appearance, Mary Aikenside was beautiful ; to 
a commonplace observer she was a very plain 
woman. 

"Hasn't Bob come home?" Mary inquired, 
peering about the room as if she expected Haz- 
litt to come out from under the sofa. 

"Yes; he's getting ready for dinner," Helen 
replied,mo ving a chair up to the fire so that Mary 
might warm her cold feet. 

"He isn't putting on a dress suit, is he?" asked 
Mary,stopping justas she was about to sit down. 
A blush on Helen's delicate cheek told her that 
her dreadful surmise was well founded. "You 
made him !" she cried, sitting down with a bang. 

Helen, like all people who know they are right, 
50 



A BAD THING 

hated to be found fault with, even in small mat- 
ters. "He may as well dress like a gentleman," 
she said, coldly; and Mary, perceiving that her 
friend was irritated, let the dress suit drop. Mary , 
like Helen, was working at a piece of embroid- 
ery, — a bureau cover, white on white, just the 
thing for a wedding present; and as neither of 
the women had anything especial to say, they 
worked away for fully ten minutes in silence. 
Helen sat bolt upright, holding her embroidery 
haughtily as if she despised it: Mary bent over 
her work, and showed an almost affectionate 
interest in each stitch she took. 

"How nice it will be for Rob to have you at 
home this winter!" Mary said at last. 

"I wish I could be with him," Helen replied, 
with seeming composure, "but I've just decided 
that I ought to go to Sacramento next week and 
be with my father and mother." 

"For how long?" 

"About two or three months." 

Mary's eyes flashed. "I think it's very wrong 
of you, Helen!" she exclaimed, dropping her 
work and looking up excitedly. 

Helen had the self-control to say nothing, 
perhaps the best answer she could have made. 

But Mary was not going to let her off. "Poor 
old Rob!" she said sorrowfully. "How lonely 
he'll be! You've no idea ofhowheis when you're 
away, Helen. If you had, you'd never think of 
going. He hardly laughed once all last winter. 
Oh Helen, just believe me, and imagine how it 
is! He works all the time when you're away; 
but he doesn't accomplish anything, even you 
can see that. Tell me of a single decent picture 
he painted all last winter! He can't laugh, he 
can't paint, he can hardly live ! Oh Helen, for 
Heaven's sake give up this expedition! Change 
your mind for the first time in your life !" 

5J 



TOO MUCH OF 

"Don't be impolite, Mary. It's my duty to go, 
and I shall go." 

*'Your duty," cried Mary, scornfully. "Your 
duty'll swallow up your whole life if you're not 
careful ! But where's your duty to your husband 
gone? I don't see that anywhere." Mary was 
well launched by this time, and things began to 
come out which she had kept bottled up for 
years. "I approve of people loving their mothers 
after they're married," she went on ; "but when 
they let their mothers manage them, and when 
they go off and stay with their mothers fully half 
the time, its too much of a good thing! I may 
as well say it, Helen; for I've thought it all for 
a good long while!" 

Helen was busily trying to keep the tears out 
of her eyes. Mary was such a good friend of hers, 
and usually so sweet and amiable that this at- 
tack was a great shock. It did not have any ef- 
fect on Helen's determination ; but it hurt her, 
and she kept wishing that Mary would stop. 

"There's another thing I've got to say before 
I'm through," Mary continued. "Of course you 
know your own husband a great deal better than 
I do ; but there's just one thing about him I don't 
think you've paid enough attention to. He re- 
quires an enormous amount of sympathy. You 
don't seem to give him much when I'm here; 
but probably you do when you're alone." Mary 
knew very well that Helen never did. "Well, it 
doesn'tmakemuch difference whatyou do when 
you're with him, he adores you so. It's when you 
go away that there's danger. Robert m.ust have 
sympathy , and if he can't get it in one place, he'll 
get it in another. He can't go through another 
winter as he did through the last. He'll go and 
find sympathy where you won't want him to, 
Helen; and honestly, I almost hope he will. I'm 
very mad with you, Helen!" 
52 



A BAD THING 

Here Robert came in, and Mary and Helen, 
with the talent for acting which you can always 
depend on in a true woman,covered up the traces 
of their conversation so that Robert did not have 
the least suspicion that they had been talking 
about him and had nearly quarreled, if not quite. 

Helen Hazlitt had been married for two years, 
and knew a great many things about her hus- 
band. She knew how to please him or hurt his 
feelings ; she could make him do just about as 
she liked; she knew what he would do or say 
when she did or said certain things. But here her 
knowledge of him stopped. She was possessed 
of excellent judgment, but was destitute of im- 
agination. Like the farmer who has but one 
horse, and who is obliged to unharness old Dob- 
bin from the plough and hitch the poor brute to 
the buggy if he wants to go to town, or to the 
sulky if he wants to race, Helen had nothing but 
her steady-going experience, and was obliged 
to employ it for purposes where sympathy and 
imagination should have been called in. Before 
Mary spoke to her so severely, she had never 
thought of how it affected Robert to have her 
go away. She had never seen him utterly de- 
pressed and unable to work, and even now she 
did not believe that he ever was so, in spite of 
Mary's tirade. Experience is like Herodotus. It 
always tells the truth about what it has seen ; but 
wheny ou apply to it for information aboutsome- 
thing else it is as likely to tell a lie as not. 

Mary Aikenside,on the other hand,knew Rob- 
ertperhaps better than any one else did,certainly 
better than he knew himself. When she was ten 
and he was twelve, they were engaged to each 
other without their parents' knowledge; and 
since then, though the engagement had been 
broken or forgotten, she had always been inti- 

53 



TOO MUCH OF 

mate with Robert and fond of him. Thus she had 
had the opportunity of watching him change 
from a boy into a man, an opportunity which 
gives one a key to many a peculiarity otherwise 
unexplainable.The early engagement camenear 
beingrenewed ten years later,but Mary discour- 
aged Robert's advances, perhaps because she 
knew him too well. She always felt older than 
he, and, in spite of his extra two years, she was 
his senior in point of character. She loved him 
as she would have loved him if he had been a 
younger brother. She was filled with dismay 
when he married Helen Vail; but she bravely 
made friends with Helen for his sake. 

She soon saw that Helen would never satisfy 
the passionate thirst for sympathy which was 
the most noticeable feature in Robert's passion- 
ate nature. Mary herself would gladly have given 
him what he needed, if she had not been afraid 
that Helen would be jealous of her. During the 
six months that Helen had been away from her 
husband, Mary had wisely seen very little of 
him; and the ardor of his friendshipand the effu- 
siveness of his affection when she did meet him 
convinced her that she was right. When Helen 
was at home she had no fears. If a woman is 
fond of a man,she can never understand his fall- 
ing blindly in love with one whom she considers 
unworthy of him; but if she is a wise woman, 
she will accept the fact as true,just as we include 
the phenomena of electricity with the rest of our 
knowledge though we do not pretend to com- 
prehend them. When Helen was at home, Rob- 
ert would obey her, Mary knew ; though she had 
no idea why, having never seen anything espec- 
ially fascinating about Helen. If Helen went 
away again, Mary did not know what would 
happen : she did not like to think. 
54 



A BAD THING 

Helen did go away, and Robert was left to 
keep house alone. He speedily gave evidence of 
the wretchedness that Mary had described. He 
tried to work hard, but his heart was not in it, 
and though he covered a great many canvases, 
he could paint no pictures. After his day's work 
he would spend a lonely evening at his solitary 
fireside, or a still lonelier one at his club. From 
time to time he wrote his wife long letters full 
of real affection and affected cheerfulness, let- 
ters that were but ill appreciated by Helen, who 
had a theory that affection was in inverse ratio 
to demonstrativeness, and who was perfectly 
confident that she loved herhusband better than 
he loved her. Her letters were models of pithy 
statement of fact without ornamentation : a sort 
of Caesar's Commentaries, except that they be- 
gan ''Dear Robert" and ended "aff'ly yours." 
Such as they were, however, Robert was de- 
lighted with them. The South Sea Islander bows 
before his rudely carved chunk of wood with as 
rapt a devotion as that with which you or I 
would kiss St. Peter's toe; and Robert pressed 
his wife's letters to his lips and read them over 
and over, and kept them near his heart as rever- 
ently as if they had really been something to 
admire. 

"Two months and a little more." Robert cal- 
culated the "little more" as probably about five 
days.That made sixty-seven days. Every morn- 
ing when he got up, he used to calculate how 
many days Helen had been away, and how 
many days it would be before she came back. 
She had been away fifty-one days when he re- 
ceived a letter from her taking it for granted that 
she was to be away for three months. It was for- 
tunate for Helen that she had no imagination, 
and could form no conception of how much pain 

55 



TOO MUCH OF 

her "two months and a little more" trick gave 
her husband. It would have troubled even her 
blameless conscience if she could have under- 
stood the torture that he suffered. It took him 
several days to regain his customary sorrowful 
equanimity. Then he changed sixty-seven to 
ninety and began calculating again. 

The third month of Helen's absence was an 
interminable one for her husband. We laugh at 
a lover's sorrows as we laugh at the torments 
inflicted by the dentist ; but I never heard any 
one in a dentist's chair laugh. Robert's day- 
times were bad enough; butthepretenceofwork 
made them pass somehow. His evenings were 
intolerable, and his nights worse. The men at 
his club jeered at his long face and sorrowful 
tone of voice with that hunter's instinct which 
leads a crowd of jolly men to make an unhappy 
one a little more unhappy. Mary Aikenside was 
away in New York. There was no one to give 
him the kindness and affection which his nature 
required as much now as when in childhood he 
fell and hurt himself, and Mary Aikenside used 
to kiss and comfort him. His craving for sym- 
pathy increased every day and took complete 
possession of him like a drunkard's desire for 
rum. He felt that he must have some one to love 
him, some one in whom he could confide. And 
when he was half frantic with this feeling, there 
came a letter from Helen,say ing that her mother 
was sick as well as her f ather,and that she should 
stay on indefinitely. 

It was perhaps fortunate for Robert that he 
received this letter at his studio on one of his 
At Home afternoons. He had no sooner finished 
it than he was obliged to jam it into his pocket 
while he went to open the door for a troop of fair 
visitors. As the crowd of guests became larger, 
56 



A BAD THING 

he was seized with a feverish gayety, chatted 
merrily with all his visitors, and laughed at all 
their jokes and at some things they said that 
were not jokes. He exhibited an enormous num- 
ber of his old pictures and poked all manner of 
fun at them. His guests were delighted with him. 
"Quite his old self !" they said ; and they stayed 
and stayed. Robert sat down at his piano and 
sang comic songs for them without any urging, 
first one and then another. He would not hear 
of their going, and tried to make every one take 
three cups of tea. Finally, when daylight was 
pretty well gone, and he had, as he supposed, 
bowed out the last visitor, he gave an absurd 
yell of triumph and flung himself face down- 
wards on the sofa. 

"Mr. Hazlitt," said a woman's voice. 

Robert sprang up with a forced laugh. "Why, 
who is it?" he asked. "Miss Morrell? Forgive 
me. Miss Morrell; but I need not apologize.You 
have had the opportunity of seeing a great ge- 
nius off his guard. When asked what geniuses 
do on such occasions you can say : 'Dive at the 
sofa.' " 

Dotha Morrell took his hand and looked into 
his eyes, her face full of anxious sympathy. 

"What has happened, Mr. Hazlitt?" she said. 
"I'm afraid you've had some great sorrow." 

"Why, that's too bad," Robert replied, still 
keeping on his mask of jollity. "I thought I'd 
been a very gay and agreeable host." 

"Your behavior may have been agreeable to 
those who were deceived by your gayety," 
Dotha said. "It caused me a great deal of pain." 

Her great brown eyes gazed up at him with 
such a look of pity and concern that he was 
melted in spite of himself. The tears came to his 
eyes, as they always did when his emotions were 
roused. 

57 



TOO MUCH OF 

"Sit down and tell me what your trouble is," 
Dotha said softly. "Perhaps I can help you. At 
any rate it will do you good to get it off your 
mind. You can trust me." 

Robert looked at her curiously. She was a lit- 
tle woman with a strange mixture of sweetness 
and power in her face, and she evidently had a 
great deal of magnetism, for he felt that he must 
do as she said. 

"Very well then," he assented in a rather hard, 
matter of fact tone of voice. "You've been so 
kind to me, Miss Morrell, that I ought to tell 
you, if you really want to know. It won't seem 
much of a sorrow to you. My wife has been in 
California three months. I expected her back 
next week, and now she writes that she's to stay 
on indefinitely. Never having been married, I 
don't suppose you see anything especial to feel 
badly about in that." 

"Indeed I do," said Dotha slowly. "It's a mis- 
take to suppose that people can't sympathize 
with what they haven't experienced. You love 
your wife and have grown to depend on her for 
your happiness. I should think it would half kill 
you. It's unnatural. It's wrong. I don't wonder 
that you feel upset. What makes her stay away ?" 

"Oh, she can't help it," Robert hastened to say . 
"I don't want to seem to throw the least shadow 
of blame on her. Her father and mother are sick 
and they need her. But I can't bear it much lon- 
ger. It seems as if I should die !" he concluded, 
gradually losing control of himself as one does 
with a sympathetic listener. 

Dotha looked at him sadly. "I'm so sorry," 
she said, and then was silent. 

They sat together for some time, saying but 
little till the clock struck six and Dotha rose to 

go- 

58 



A BAD THING 

"Come and see me while your wife's away," 
she said. "Come often. Perhaps I can help you 
pass the time ; at any rate I shall always be a 
sympathetic listener when things seem to go 
wrong. You will come, won't you?" 

"I shall most certainly. And I want to thank 
you for your kindness and sympathy, Miss Mor- 
rell. I don't know — " 

"No, don't thank me. You'll do as much for 
me some day, won't you? My rooms are under- 
neath my studio : you know where that is. Will 
you come to-morrow evening?" 

"Yes. I'll be glad to. To-morrow evening." 

And then they bade each other good-bye. 

The old Greek tragedies have a heartless way 
of dealing with right and wrong. If a man is 
throwing quoits and happens to kill his father 
by accident, the furies are after him just as much 
as if he had cut off his father's head on purpose 
and from the worst of motives. "We are all of us 
more or less like the furies as regards our esti- 
mate of wrong-doing, however much we may 
differ from them in other respects. In spite of 
Hugo's Les Miserables, a crime is usually con- 
sidered by the world at large as a crime, regard- 
less of the temptations which led up to it or the 
circumstances which palliate it. Aman is blamed 
as much for running away with a pretty woman 
as if he went off with an ugly one, although the 
temptation is far stronger in the first case than 
in the second. On the whole, it is well that it 
should be so. A man who commits crimes may 
be an excellent person, but his propensity for 
criminal actions, however justifiable, must be 
discouraged. The world's rough justice makes 
a number of comparatively innocent personssuf- 
f er ; but, on the whole, I think most of us deserve 
a good deal worse than we get. 

59 



TOO MUCH OF 

Such were Mary Aikenside's reflections as she 
came up on the Shore Line from New York to 
Boston. She was wondering whether Helen's 
behavior to Robert would drive him to do any- 
thing desperate, and if it did, what the world 
would think of him. It was well on in the fourth 
month of Helen's absence. Mary, who thought 
about herself so little that she had a great deal 
of time to think about other people, had Robert 
still in her mind as she walked home from the 
station. By a strange coincidence, she happened 
to see him just as she was thinking about him. 
He was on the other side of the street walking 
with a young woman — Mary could not see who 
she was. At first she thought it was Helen re- 
turned unexpectedly; but no, this woman was 
shorter than Helen and moved much more 
gracefully .Was it that Miss Morrell whom Mary 
had had pointed out to her? Whoever she was, 
Robert was evidently very much at home with 
her, for they walked close together, and had the 
indescribable look that means intimacy. Robert 
was so much interested in her that he did not 
look across the street, and his old friend passed 
unnoticed. Mary did not know what to think, 
decided to think no more about it, and did think 
about it all the way home. 

That evening Robert came in to call. He had 
heard at the club from John Aikenside that Mary 
had returned. His manner had entirely changed 
in the two months Mary had been away. There 
wassomethingdesperateabouthim: he was des- 
perate in his gayety, desperate in his cynicism, 
desperatein his sorrow,desperate in his laughter. 
Mary was shocked at the change. She had been 
troubled by the depth of his gloom when she 
went away, but this was infinitely worse. How- 
ever, she began to talk to him cheerfully, and 
60 



A BAD THING 

before long she was able to form conclusions. 

"I passed you on Boylston Street to-day and 
you wouldn't notice me," she said with simu- 
lated indignation. 

He looked at her suspiciously, but she was 
innocently bending over her sewing. "I didn't 
see you," he replied. "Let's see, I was walking 
with some one, wasn't I? Oh yes, it was Doth 
— Miss Morrell." 

"Oh, I thought I saw some one with you," 
Mary observed, looking up. "Why, who's Miss 
Morrell, Rob? Have I ever heard of her any- 
where?" 

"Well, you ought to have !" Robert exclaimed, 
indignantly. "She's one of the best painters in 
Boston, if Boston people only knew it!" 

Mary doubted the fact. She had seen some of 
Miss Morrell's work and thought it absurdly 
fanciful. A good deal of it was out of drawing. 
She had heard Robert himself say so, though 
his opinion seemed to have changed. 

"Oh, I remember," Mary said. "She's the bo- 
hemian one. Now Rob, why can't you take me 
to her studio? — that is, if you know her well 
enough." 

Robert pretended to consider. Oh, Robert, 
Robert, why do you try to act a part? Can't you 
see that that woman there who is making be- 
lieve hem a towel is really reading your every 
motion, your every word? What are you as an 
actor beside her? She knows you are infatuated 
with Dotha Morrell because you admire her 
paintings: you, who can't bear anything to be 
out of drawing. She knows you are intimate with 
her by the way you walked and talked to her. 
She has dropped in on Carrie Train, Dotha Mor- 
rell's friend, and found out that you spend half 
your time with Dotha, and here you are fool- 

6i 



TOO MUCH OF 

ishly pretending to wonder if you know Miss 
Morrell well enough to take a friend to see her 
pictures! Oh, Robert! 

"I don't think she'd mind," he said at last. 
"She may think it's queer ; but we wouldn't mind 
what she thought ! "This last remark Robert con- 
sidered a masterpiece. "Let's go to-morrow," he 
added, laughing, as if the whole plan was a good 
joke. For the first few minutes of his visit the 
poor fellow had tried to be gloomy, so as to 
make Mary think he was grieving as much as 
ever over Helen's absence. Later on he had for- 
gotten his gloom, and now his scare lest Mary 
should find out how intimate he was with Dotha 
had brought on a fit of extravagant gayety. 

"Is it true what people say?" asked Mary, 
after a pause, "that Miss Morrell has very rev- 
olutionary ideas about society: that she's an 
anarchist and thinks the present social system 
ought to be abolished?" 

"Why, how should I know what she thinks ?" 
Robert exclaimed with a rather disagreeable 
laugh. "She may have tried to kill the Czar for 
aught I know. By the way, what do you think 
of the new Czar?" 

Robert walked down the Aikenside's front 
steps that evening well satisfied v/ith having put 
Mary off the scent. Five minutes afterwards 
Mary walked down the same steps, with a maid 
for escort, made her way to the Providence Sta- 
tion, and sent off the following telegram : 

"Mrs. Robert Hazlitt, ii Santa Rosa Street, 
Sacramento^ California. 

"Come home immediately. Do not wait till I 
write. If you do not come now you will be sorry 
till the day of your death. It is to save Robert. 
Come even if your father is dying. 

"Mary." 
62 



A BAD THING 

On leaving Mary, Robert stepped round to the 
club. He wanted to have a talk with Wendell 
Barstowe, a cynical friend of his with whom he 
had been a good deal of late. Mary's personality 
had had such an effect on him that he wanted 
somebody to counteract her influence.Barstowe 
was there sure enough, reading a French comic 
newspaper. Hazlitt sat down by him, and they 
had a table brought and something to drink. 

"What do you think about marriage, Bar- 
stowe?" Robert inquired suddenly, holding his 
glass up to the light. 

"In what way?" Barstowe asked seriously. 
He never laughed at Robert, and that was the 
reason why the young artist liked to talk to him. 

"Why, as an institution, I mean," Robert ex- 
plained. "Do you consider it as a divine insti- 
tution or just an agreement like any agreement?" 

"I should be inclined to regard monogamy as 
a part of our particular civilization," Barstowe 
said, speaking slowly ."The Mussulman has four 
wives, the monk has none, we have one, or 
rather you have, I believe, haven't you? I don't 
see that there's anything especially divine about 
one system any more than there is about the 
others." 

"Still,"Robertobjected,"suchasitis,it's apart 
of our civilization, and any one who disregards 
it — a married man, for instance, who goes off 
with another woman — is injuring civilization by 
just so much." 

"I'm by no means sure of that," rejoined Me- 
phistopheles. "Marriage is merely one of the 
temporary results of social evolution. It isn't a 
stopping place. We must improve in the cus- 
toms regulating our relations with the other sex 
just as we must improve in our religion and in 
our politics. I'm not sure that the man you de- 

63 



TOO MUCH OF 

scribe isn't ultimately a benefactor of mankind. 
It's by just such things being done more and 
more that our ideas about marriage will become 
more and more liberal." 

"The trouble is," Robert observed, filling his 
glass again, *'that when your benefactor of man- 
kind sets to work and does such a thing, the im- 
mediate results are disastrous to all concerned." 

Barstowe thought for a while. "No, Hazlitt," 
he said, "I think you're wrong. It's to be pre- 
supposed, of course, that he and the person with 
whom he departs are extremely fond of each 
other. The immediate results to them, then, may 
be assumed to be the reverse of disastrous. With 
regard to the man's wife, there's at least a fight- 
ing chance that she was never fond of him, neg- 
lected him, perhaps; such things do happen. In 
that case, or indeed in any case, she can get a 
divorce and live to marry another day. As to the 
world at large, the little episode shows pretty 
clearly something that the world has never been 
willing to recognize, that there are irresistible 
chains of affection and sympathy far stronger, 
higher, and more divine than any mere earth- 
born ceremony of marriage, and that they draw 
two souls together in spite of Heaven, Earth, 
and Hell. I think it's rather a good lesson for 
the world to learn. "Waiter, bring another bottle. 
No Hazlitt, I'm paying for this one." 

The efforts that are made to keep a man alive 
when he is in continuous pain and has no chance 
of ever being free from pain, or better in any way ; 
when he actually desires death, and every one 
who has his interest at heart desires it for him ; 
are a source of wonder to the thoughtful mind. 
Religion, Science, and The Law have drawn a 
line, and no one dares to cross it. We make it a 
64 



A BAD THING 

rule to keep body and soul together as long as 
possible in all cases, lest, if we once give our- 
selves the power of hastening death, we come 
to abuse the fascinating privilege. Our system 
is one of self-distrust. We prefer that a certain 
number of sufferers should continue to suffer 
rather than that we should incur the temptation 
of doing wrong. We err on the safe side, as the 
man did who put off shooting his horse for a 
day in hopes that the animal might learn in that 
time to walk on the two legs which were not 
broken. But we do err, and we know it. If an 
asylum of insane incurables was blown to atoms 
while the officers and keepers were away, our 
first exclamation on reading our newspapers 
would be : "How dreadful !" our next, "Fm glad 
of it!" 

Helen's father was the victim of a slow par- 
alysis which had already invaded his brain. 
Whatever pleasure it gave Helen to be with 
him, it certainly gave him none to have her there, 
for, in spite of what Mrs. Vail had said in her 
letter, he evidently had not the smallest idea of 
who his daughter was. Except for a certain ex- 
citement, apparently not pleasurable, which his 
wife's appearance in the room aroused in him, 
he seemed to be conscious of nobody's presence. 
Helen sat with him all the morning with her 
embroidery and a book; Mrs. Vail took her 
daughter's place in the afternoon ; and at seven 
o'clock the trained nurse installed herself for the 
night. About half the time Mr. Vail lay in a list- 
less torpor ; about half the time his face showed 
that he suffered acutely. The doctor said that he 
might live a year, and that he might live ten. 

The time passed slowly for Helen. Though 
she was accustomed to slight the countless af- 
fectionate attentions of her husband, and really 

65 



TOO MUCH OF 
thought that she despised them, she missed them 
now that she had to get on withoutthem. In spite 
of her unemotional nature she was one day con- 
scious of a distinct thrill of pride when she hap- 
pened to reflect that none of the men she met in 
Sacramento was as able, as distinguished, or as 
entertaining as her husband. "I wish Robert was 
a little neater," she added to herself. She would 
have written to her husband oftener except that 
she knew very well he would come to expect 
more in the future ; so she abode by her old rule 
of three letters a fortnight. Robert's letters she 
read with a certain amount of real interest. Of 
course she heavily discounted his expressions 
of affection ; her inverse ratio maxim obliged her 
to do that. But Robert's letters could bear dis- 
counting. They were burning with passion, and 
so full of Helen that he hardly told the sim- 
plest facts about himself. Helen read them with 
a rather supercilious smile, but she was dis- 
tinctly glad to get them. She began to look for- 
ward to the time when the three months would 
be over and she could be back in Boston again. 
Once she actually saw Robert in a dream, and 
wondered if he ever dreamt of her. 

It was curious how subservient Helen was to 
her mother, for she was never subservient to any 
one else. But Mrs. Vail was a person of method, 
and by a rigid and systematic control she accus- 
tomed her self-willed daughter so completely to 
obedienceduringherchildhoodthatHelennever 
got out of the habit. For Helen, though she had 
a powerful will, had a still stronger instinct of 
conservatism. Her younger sister Alice, whom 
she had bullied to her heart's content when they 
were children, and whom Mrs. Vail had many 
a time reduced to tears by a frown or a shake 
of the head, had become much more indepen- 
66 



A BAD THING 

dent of her mother than Helen was, now that 
both girls were married. Alice formed a kind of 
club with her husband to resist her mother's en- 
croachments, while Helen still sailed under ma- 
ternal colors. 

"Do you think I'd better go by the Union Pa- 
cific, Mother?" Helen asked at the breakfast 
table one morning. "Or what do you think of 
taking the Southern road and dropping in on 
Cousin Florence at Santa Barbara?" 

"I think you'd better put it off, my dear. I 
haven't been myself for the last week, and to- 
day I think I shall take to my bed. Robert can 
spare you." 

"He says he's very lonely," Helen observed, 
rather timorously, working hard at her sewing. 
"He says he was almost heart-broken when I 
wrote that I was going to stay the third month." 

"Well, my dear, that's to get you home that 
he says that. Robert's an affectionate husband, 
a good, affectionate husband ; but he musn't try 
to control you too much. Write him the truth, 
dear. Tell him that I'm sick and that you must 
stay on indefinitely. Then it will give him a nice 
surprise when you say you're coming." 

Helen worked a while in silence. "Poor Rob- 
ert!" she said at last, shifting her embroidery in 
its frame. 

Mrs. Vail laughed. "Yes, poor Robert!" she 
said good-naturedly, "and poor You, and poor 
Me, and poor Father! We've all got our trials, 
Helen, and I'm thankful that not many have to 
suffer as I do. Give my love to Robert, dear, 
when you write." 

Another month went by, and things began to 
look as if Helen could go at last. Mrs. Vail's 
health improved ; Mr. Vail remained very much 
the same ; there was nothing to keep Helen back. 

67 



TOO MUCH OF 
In fact she would have started already, but that 
her mother suddenly formed the idea of going 
east with her. She needed a rest, she said, and 
this was just the time to take it, before her hus- 
band was in immediate danger. Helen was glad 
to have her mother go, but was sorry to have 
her own departure delayed, for Robert had not 
written for some time, and, though not prone to 
foolish fears on his account, she thought it just 
possible that he might have met with an acci- 
dent. 

At last a letter from Robert did come. It was 
a rambling letter, full of disconnected pieces of 
news and uninteresting anecdotes. But he had 
suddenly stopped in the middle of a sentence, 
and the last few lines made Helen's heart beat. 

"I wish you'd come home, Helen," Robert 
said. "I'm getting sort of desperate, and I can't 
depend on myself. A good many things have 
been going on this last month that I haven't told 
you about. Probably to-morrow I'll be sorry I 
wrote you this. But take advantage of it and 
come back before it's too late. I'm your hus- 
band, you know, after all. If you don't come, I 
shall think — well, I shall think the truth. 
"Still your loving husband, 

"Robert Hazlitt." 

Helen went right to her mother and told her 
that she would have to start for home that very 
day. She showed Robert's letter by way of war- 
rant. But Mrs. Vail explained away a good deal 
of what frightened her daughter. She pointed 
out that there was nothing definite said: only 
obscure hints that might mean anything or noth- 
ing. The things that had been going on in the 
last month might perhaps mean that Robert had 
68 



A BAD THING 

once or twice drunk more than was good for 
him, but they probably had some reference to 
his pictures. Nowhere was there a definite re- 
quest that Helen should come immediately. 
Even if there had been, Mrs. Vail's new clothes 
would be ready in three days, and three days 
was really 'immediately" in the case of such a 
long distance. As to the "Still your loving hus- 
band," that did not mean that he would ever 
cease to be so ; on the contrary, it indicated that 
whatever happened, Helen might be confident 
that Robert would always be "still her loving 
husband." 

Helen listened, argued, would not be con- 
vinced; and at last agreed to wait three days, if 
her mother would promise to let her go then 
even if she herself was unable to do so. 

The next day Helen wrote Robert the most 
affectionate letter she had ever written him, and 
after she had sent it off, her heart was lighter. 
The morning of the second day, Mary's tele- 
gram was brought her as she sat by her father's 
bedside. On reading it she ran into her mother's 
room and showed it to Mrs. Vail. 

"I must go to-day, mother," she said firmly. 
"I promised to wait three days, but I don't care. 
I'm going to break my promise." 

Mrs. Vail read the telegram. "Ah, from Mary 
Aikenside, I see. I never liked Robert's intimacy 
with that girl : she always seems to be seeing 
faults in people. You'd much better wait till to- 
morrow, Helen." 

"I won't," said Helen, and walked out of the 
room. 

In spite of Helen's rudeness, Mrs. Vail went 
east with her daughter. The new dresses had to 
be left behind, but her devotion was equal to 

69 



TOO MUCH OF 

the sacrifice. Of course she could not help re- 
proaching Helen. Helen bore all that she said 
with meekness, or rather with callous uncon- 
sciousness, and was not rude again. Day after 
day of the long journey passed, while Mrs. Vail 
chattered pleasantly and Helen sat thinking, not 
always of what her mother was talking about. 
She was so preoccupied that her mother grew 
anxious about her, yet her health seemed good; 
she certainly never complained. She did not be- 
gin conversations, either about Robert or any 
other subject, and she would not join in when 
her mother began. She hardly answered ques- 
tions. After a few days of this torture of an un- 
sympathetic companion, Mrs. Vail made friends 
with the Episcopalian bishop of Arizona and his 
wife, who occupied the section opposite. "Such 
interesting people,dear,seven unmarried daugh- 
ters and one son who was devoted to them all, 
but is now insane!" After Mrs. Vail had made 
these acquaintances, Helen was left, for the 
greater part of the time, to her own reflections. 
Just before the train reached Denver, Helen 
told the porter to bring her a telegraph blank. 
She wanted to telegraph to Robert. She thought 
a long time and then wrote as follows : 

"I am coming as fast as I can. I think of you 
all the time. Everything is my fault. Forgive me, 
Robert. Nelly." 

At Denver she called the porter again. "Will 
you please send this telegram?" she said. "Wait 
a moment, I'll just read it over first." 

She read it, blushed, thought a minute, then 
tore it to bits and threw the pieces on the floor. 

"You needn't wait," she said to the porter. 
"I've decided not to send it." 
70 



A BAD THING 

It was a quick journey. Mrs. Vail was pretty 
well exhausted and wanted to stop over a day 
at St. Louis, and again at Chicago. Helen was 
iron. Her mother might stop over if she liked, 
but she would have to stop over alone. 

Long before the train reached the Boston sta- 
tion, Helen was on the lowest step of the plat- 
form, in spite of the remonstrances of the brake- 
man. She had telegraphed Robert from New 
York, asking him to meet her. When the train 
entered the station, she jumped off while it was 
still going, and began to run about searching for 
her husband. It was early in the morning; but 
a considerable crowd was assembled to meetthe 
train, a crowd which gradually disappeared by 
twos, threes, and fours, as each traveler was 
surrounded and borne off by a laughing, shout- 
ing, and kissing circle of friends. Helen noticed 
especially a young wife who had come to meet 
her husband. "Oh, Harry, you've been away 
two whole days !" the girl cried, as she flung her 
arms round him and kissed him with the disre- 
gard for onlookers which is sanctioned by the 
usage of railroad stations. "Two whole days!" 
Helen repeated to herself, and a lump came into 
her throat. She did not give Robert up till every 
one had disappeared, and her mother and she 
were alone on the platform. Then she ordered 
a carriage and told the driver not to mind the 
trunks, but to drive to the Apartment House in 
Beacon Street as fast as he could. 

The elevator boy at the Apartment House said 
he did not know whether Mr. Hazlitt had spent 
the night at home or not; he could not remem- 
ber. He was sure that Mr. Hazlitt had had some 
trunks sent away the morning before ; but wheth- 
er Mr. Hazlitt himself had gone out of town he 
did not know. Helen shuddered at what he said 

n 



TOO MUCH OF 
about the trunks. She and her mother went up- 
stairs in the elevator, and Helen opened the door 
of the apartment with her latch-key. She called 
Robert's name ; but there was no answer. Leav- 
ing her mother in the parlor, she ran down the 
long passage to the bed-room. The door was 
open. Robert was not there, and the bed was 
untouched. The pillow-shams had not been re- 
moved, so she knew that Robert must have told 
thechamber-maidthatheshouldspendthenight 
away from home. She looked round the room. 
None of Robert's clothes were lying about as 
they usually were. There were three unopened 
letters on the bureau in a pile. She picked them 
up, and as she did so her hand trembled. The 
first was the affectionate letter she had written 
from San Francisco telling Robert that she was 
coming in a few days. The second was the tel- 
egram she had sent him from New York. The 
third was addressed to herself in Robert's hand- 
writing. Her heart beat fast and her fingers still 
shook; but she managed to open it. It was dated 
the day before. 

"Dear Helen," Robert wrote, "I have written 
to you at Sacramento, but I leave this letter here 
because you may be on your way home, though 
I do not think it probable. 

"You and I made a great mistake when we 
married each other, Helen. I have never been 
anything but a source of annoyance to you, and 
you have never been able to give me that sym- 
pathy which I need, though perhaps I do not 
deserve it. It is not your fault that you cannot 
love me. I do not blame you. But I have found 
a woman who does, the woman whom I ought 
to have married. She and I have decided to spend 
our lives together, and you will probably never 
see me again. 
72 



A BAD THING 

"I should feel that I was doing you a great 
wrong if I did not know that after the first shock 
you will be far happier living at Sacramento with 
your mother, as you always preferred to do. 
Were it not for this, I never should have taken 
such a step, and Dotha Morrell would have been 
the first to dissuade me from it." 

The last part was written more hurriedly. 

"Yes, you and I made a great mistake. You, 
I'm sure, have never been to blame, but have 
always done what you supposed — Oh, Nelly, 
I may be committing a great sin ; but I can't help 
it — I don't know — I can't think — Anyway it's 
too late. God bless you dear. I never shall give 
up praying for you. Can you ever bring your- 
self — Oh, Nelly, Nelly, why couldn't you love 
me? Robert." 

Helen dropped the letter and stood perfectly 
still, her lips pale, her hands clenched. 

Mrs. Vail came in. "Has Robert gone out of 
town, Helen?" she asked. "I should think he 
mighthavebeenathomewhenheknewyouwere 
coming back!" 

Helen took hold of the foot of the bed to keep 
herself from falling. 

"Will you kindly leave the room, mother?" 
she said. "I want to be alone." 



FRANCIS PARKMAN 



With youth's blue sky and streaming sunHght 
blest, 
And flushed with hope, he set himself to trace 
The fading footprints of a banished race, 

Unmindful of the storm-clouds in the west. 

In silent pain and torments unconfessed, 
Determination written on his face. 
He struggled on, nor faltered in his pace 

Until his work was done and he could rest. 

He was no frightened paleface stumbling 
through 
An unknown forest, wandering round and 
round. 

Like his own Indians, with instinct fine 

He knew his trail, though none saw how he 
knew. 
Reckoned his time, and reached his camping- 
ground 

Just as the first white stars began to shine. 



LUCY 



THE TWO SIDES OF A PROMISE 

& 



'•For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay 
them on men's shoulders ; but they themselves will not move them 
with one of their fingers." 

Time hates the abnormal ; great sorrows and 
great joys are alike an abomination to him. Give 
me enough millions of years, and I will roll up 
my Sisyphus stone as contentedly as you thrum 
yourmorninglessonontheharp.Givemeenough 
millions of years, and my glass of nectar will 
taste no better than your mug of hot water. If 
you were to fling the Winged Victory of Samo- 
thrace and Charlie Peters' hump-backed sea- 
nymph over the rocks into the sea, the waves 
would soon jostle them both into a few round 
pieces of marble. And so when twenty years have 
washed over your wedding day, and thirty over 
your brother's funeral, both will be reduced to 
a few old memories. I would as lief look back 
on an unhappy past as a happy one^provided 
it be far enough away. 

Time had an able auxiliary in effecting the 
recovery of Lucy Fellowes from the shock of 
her mother's death. This ally was Lucy's un- 
selfishness. For sorrow at death is for the most 
part selfish sorrow. Take a houseful of us at a 
funeral with our handkerchiefs at our eyes. What 
are we crying about? Because we think life will 
not be so pleasant for us now that our friend is 
dead. I suppose very few of us cry because we 
think the departed has gone to Hell. But an un- 
selfish man is fortified against personal grief. In 
usurping a part of the pains and pleasures of 

75 



THE TWO SIDES 

others, he loses a portion of his own. He has, 
as it were, invested half of himself at a safe dis- 
tance, and it is only the other half that is open 
to attack. Deal him a mortal blow, and you have 
killed only half of him. Time and unselfishness 
helped Lucy to come to herself so quickly that 
she was ashamed. Her father's recovery was 
slower. Time accomplished it unaided. 

Strange to say, though Mr. Fellowes was over- 
come by real grief at his wif e' s death,his thoughts 
went back to the funeral with a sort of ghastly 
pleasure. Some persons think there is nothing 
worthy of interest or attention in a funeral or a 
wedding except the fact that the interested par- 
ties are j oined in marriage or put into the ground, 
as the case may be. Such was not Mr. Fellowes. 
He regarded a wedding or a funeral as an ex- 
tremely important thing in itself, entirely apart 
fromtheinterestthat attaches to it becausesome- 
one is buried or married. He felt it very neces- 
sary that the distance of relatives from the cof- 
fin or from the bridal pair should vary as the dis- 
tance of their relationship. He took a genuine 
interest in arranging his wife's funeral; and his 
mortuary labors really helped him to bear the 
shock of her death. The poor man's sense of the 
importance of etiquette could not prevent him 
from breaking down in the midst of the service. 
But in other respects the funeral was a success. 

The widower's withdrawal from business was 
a great mistake. ^A/'ork would have distracted 
his mind. He said Lucy ought not to be left alone 
all day. Lucy would have preferred his absence, 
though she did not dare to say so. A woman 
ought to be her own mistress from nine o'clock 
till five. In giving up his business, a man throws 
away the talisman that makes him seem delight- 
ful to his womenfolk. As a wise woman once 
76 



OF A PROMISE 

said : Men are like lamps ; they shine at night, 

but they ought to be out daytimes. 

Lucy declared she would never marry until 
her father died. Now Mr, John Fellowes was 
fifty-five, and as hale a man as there was in New 
Haven. There was every prospect of his living 
till he was ninety. If he did, Lucy's vow doomed 
her to celibacy till she was sixty. At that age she 
would doubtless have become wise enough to 
select an excellent husband. Perhaps a man 
might be found who desired an experienced help- 
mate. Lucy admitted that most girls who say 
they will not marry, do marry, after all ; but she 
maintained that she would not — which was pos- 
sible. She declared that she was different from 
other girls, and she undoubtedly was. I suppose 
that every separate pebble on the beach is a little 
different from every other pebble ; and yet each 
does just about the same thing as its companions: 
that is, it waits until some one comes and claims 
it. Mr. Fellowes did not look upon Lucy's self- 
denying ordinance with such horror as might 
have been expected. He accepted the sacrifice, 
feeling very sure that it would prove to be no 
sacrifice.To live with him wasnot,in his opinion, 
an undesirable fate. He held that girls are much 
surer to be happy with their fathers whom they 
know than with strange young men whom they 
don't. He even went to some pains to sustain 
his daughter's determination. He took care to 
be present whenever a young man was calling 
on Lucy, on the ground that when there are 
three in the room it is difficult to be agreeable 
and impossible to propose. The Lord had taken 
his wife from him, and he had bowed his head; 
but he did not propose to let anyone else depop- 
ulate his family. 

Mrs. Fellowes died in September. When the 

77 



THE TWO SIDES 

following June came round, Lucy was asked by 
her father to choose a place where they should 
spend the summer. Cotuit, which had hertofore 
been their summer home, had too many heart- 
breaking associations. The widower declared 
that it was now a matter of indifference to him 
where he lived, and that Lucy might take him 
wherever she chose. Lucy made four sugges- 
tions, which were all vetoed. Her fifth plea was 
for Europe. 

"I'll tell you what, Papa!" 

"Well?" 

"Let's go to Europe ! Wouldn't it be fun ! And 
this is just the time ! Can we? I believe I should 
go crazy ! Oh, Papa ! We could go to Paris and 
to Dresden" — 

"And you shall go some day, my dear. You 
shall go everywhere you like. Only this sum- 
mer the state of my investments is not — not quite 
— in short I think we might better defer your 
idea — not give it up, but defer it. And now, Lucy, 
before you decide definitely where to take me, 
I wantto tell you of a letter I have just received. 
Mr. Morton Tyler has written to ask if I should 
not like to live in his country house for the sum- 
mer. Itis at Monotaug, Rhode Island. You could 
not imagine a more delightful spot: the house 
itself is on an eminence with the ocean in front 
and beautiful lakes and woods behind. You re- 
member, perhaps, that I was there several years 
ago for some two or three days. It is a quiet lo- 
cality. There are no neighbors but the Kirkes 
of Philadelphia — excellent people. What do you 
think, dear?" 

"I think it would be charming, Papa. It sounds 
very attractive." 

"Decide for yourself, Lucy. I shall not influ- 
ence you one way or the other. I only say by 
78 



OF A PROMISE 

the way that the place is perfectly adapted — 
no, I will not say it. I shall leave you free. I want 
you to make your decision entirely without ref- 
erence to me. Do you really want to go there?" 

"Yes, I do, Papa, honestly." 

"You really want to go there more than to any 
other place?" 

"Certainly I do, as long as you — Yes, I do." 

"Very well, my dear. Then we may regard the 
matter as settled." 

Monotaug proved to be a charming home for 
any one who did not mind loneliness. Like every 
summer resort, it was superior to all other sum- 
mer resorts. I have been fortunate enough to 
come upon a description of the place in a pam- 
phlet written to point out the advantages of the 
Conantuck Hotel which lies a few miles further 
to the westward. After reading this account, I 
should no sooner think of describing Monotaug 
myself than I should think of writing a poetical 
description of the Fall of Man. 

"The diminutive hamlet of Monotaug," writes 
the Proprietor of the Conantuck Hotel, "is as 
cute a retreat as any in broad R. I. Its charms 
are twofold: viz.: marine and sylvan. He who is 
sick of watching 'the stately ships go by' can 
seek quiet in the secluded valleys in shore. He, 
on the other hand, who is wearied by the strain 
of the wood-mosquito can drown it in the thun- 
der of the 'everlasting sea' after walking one 
mile. 

"The song of the bird is heard daytimes and 
of whippoorwills every night and the post office 
is only five minutes' walk. But superb as are the 
natural advantages of the spot, society vies with 
nature to make the spot 'beloved of God and 

79 



THE TWO SIDES 
man.* Few dwellers in 'Little Rhody' have at- 
tained to years of discretion without hearing of 
Morton Tyler, Esq., once candidate for Gov- 
ernor of this State. Less well known, perhaps, 
in this section is the Kirke family ; but it is safe 
to say that every inhabitant of the Quaker City 
knows, and is proud of, their own gallant Brevet 
Brigadier General Philip Q. Kirke. The scenery 
is chaste and the climate healthy.'* 

The morning after Lucy and Mr. Fellowes 
arrived at Monotaug, Lucy rode to Conantuck 
on her bicycle. Philip Kirke, the eldest son of 
the Brevet Brigadier General, was sitting at the 
window when she passed. He looked up, hur- 
ried out of the room, mounted his machine, and 
caught up with her before she had gone half a 
mile. Lucy, who had met him the night before, 
blushed when she heard his voice behind her. 
Women's feelings are so hard to read that when 
you want to know whether or not a woman likes 
you, it is necessary to come upon her suddenly, 
and to notice carefully if she blushes. If she does, 
she may like you and she may not. 

Lucy looked well on her bicycle. She did not 
wear black when she was riding. On this espe- 
cial morning she had on a short skirt of dark 
blue serge, blue canvas gaiters, russet shoes, and 
a white shirt waist striped with blue. For the 
benefit of whatever ladies may be reading these 
pages, I will say that she had three other bicy- 
cling costumes at home. These I will not de- 
scribe, my sartorial muse being already ex- 
hausted by her short but unaccustomed flight. 
Lucy was below the medium height and in- 
clined to be slender. She had light hair, a com- 
plexion that the summer sun had turned into a 
satisfactory brown, and blue eyes which sur-^ 
80 



OF A PROMISE 

prised you by being clearer than any one else's. 
She rode gracefully but slowly, so that Kirke 
had no difficulty in coming up with her. 

"Pardon me for disturbingyour solitude, Miss 
Fellowes. I hope I haven't interrupted a son- 
net." 

"Not at all, Mr. Kirke. I have been studying 
the stones in your Rhode Island roads — a sort 
of surface geology." 

"How well you ride !" 

"Please don't, Mr. Kirke. I'm sure to fall off 
when I feel big. I'd much rather run into a stone 
than into a compliment." 

"Now come, Miss Fellowes: one would al- 
most think you came from Boston!" 

"Why ; are Boston girls such exquisite riders ? 
From Boston? No, indeed: Boston's Harvard. 
A New Haven girl would be mobbed there. 
Where did you go to college?" 

"How do you know I've been to college?" 

"Because you have a superficial politeness 
and an innate sense of superiority." 

During the remainder of their ride, Miss Fel- 
lowes and Mr. Kirke talked about themselves. 
This style of communication is from one point 
of view useless ; from another extremely prof- 
itable. If it be assumed that the object of con- 
versation is mutual instruction, Phil and Lucy 
would have done better if he had pointed out to 
her that the country through which they were 
riding was a terminal moraine, while she repaid 
him by explaining to him the origin and evolu- 
tion of Yale University. Such would probably 
have been a conversation between Miss Maria 
Edgeworth and Mr. Jacob Abbott. But if the ob- 
ject of conversation be that those conversing 
may know each other better, then they had bet- 
ter talk about themselves. People do not know 

81 



THE TWO SIDES 
each other any better because they have ex- 
plained things to each other. You may talk to 
your neighbor for ten years about comparative 
osteology and the habits of birds, and not find 
out till the end of that time that he beats his 
wife every Saturday night on principle. This lit- 
tle fact, learned from a quiet personal talk over 
a cigar, helps you to a true appreciation of his 
character far more than all your ten years' con- 
troversy over birds and bones. 

Never did hero have a fairer chance to win a 
golden prize than Philip Kirke had that summer 
at Monotaug. True, there was a dragon in the 
case, but a dragon who spends part of his time 
in New Haven need hardly be taken into con- 
sideration by a resolute hero. There was also, 
to be sure, a sort of assistant dragon, a certain 
Mrs. Watson, who nominally guarded the pre- 
cious fruit when the real old hydra was away; 
but she had that unfortunate tendency to sym- 
pathize with handsome young heroes which has 
so often proved fatal to female dragons. The 
great hydra kept trying to overcome the young 
champion with the flames and vapors that came 
out of his mouth ; but, as we all know, heroes 
are in the habit of going about dressed in armor 
of proof; and they are only a little annoyed at 
dragon's breath, very much as you or I might 
be a trifle put out by being obliged to ride in a 
smoking car. 

Mr. John Fellowes had driven away a con- 
siderable number of heroes from his daughter 
by disagreeable remarks and overbearing de- 
meanor; and this made it all the more unpleasant 
for him now that he had come across a cham- 
pion who refused to be overcome by these mis- 
siles. For such weapons, like the Australian's 
82 



OF A PROMISE 

boomerang,are extremely dangerous to him who 
uses them if they chance to miss their mark: 
they comehurtHngback again,and,if the thrower 
does not look sharp, he is apt to get a broken 
head. Mr. Fellowes at last began to see that he 
could not hit Kirke with his well-worn boom- 
erangs, and that he must think up something 
else. Meanwhile he kept on throwmg boomer- 
angs,withdisastrous results tohimself. All weap- 
ons have their day, and it is extremely disagree- 
able for those who happen to be using them at 
about eight o'clock in the evening. 

Let no one infer from what I have said that 
my hero was anything remarkable. The Reader, 
who is doubtless well up in current literature, 
has probably observed that the age of the Lord 
Orvilles and the John Halifaxes has gone by. 
We have to put black spots on our heroes now- 
adays, just as the old-fashioned beauties of Bath 
and Epsom did on their complexions, so that the 
unspotted parts may shinethebrighter.This cus- 
tom, indeed, has been carried so far that the 
Reader may be thankful to have secured a hero 
who is not all spot. 

In the first place Philip Kirke was not pliant 
enough for this tornado world of ours where the 
wind is blowingforty miles an hour half the time, 
and where it sometimes gets as high as seventy. 
It's fine to see the staunch old oak trees stand- 
ing up to their work while the little birches bend 
and quail before the hurricane ; but, good Heav- 
ens ! walk through the woods after the wind has 
gone down, and who's standing up then ? Why 
even the very grass is laughing at that old oak 
who has fallen on his head; and the poor fellow 
certainly doesn't look very dignified now: who 
can, with his feet in the air ? 

For another thing, Kirke thought a great deal 

83 



THE TWO SIDES 

too much about his clothes. His family might 
have kept a rough sort of time by the costumes 
which he wore at different times of the day ; and 
his boots, as if they had been made of chameleon 
skin, were red in the morning, black in the af- 
ternoon, and patented at night. Such devotion 
to self-attire is seldom the accompaniment of 
an expansive mind. Mr. Gladstone's collars are 
now out of style: I know not whether they ever 
were in it. Mr. Carlyle, it is true, wrote a book 
about other people's clothes; but I doubt if he 
ever thought much about his own. Caesar was 
well dressed, but if the only thing a man wears 
is a toga, I should think almost any one might 
have a rather nice one. There are other things 
better than clothes; and while we think of clothes 
we are not thinking of these. Clothes must swal- 
low up our bodies: let them not devour our 
minds! I would not seem to advocate brogans 
and the absence of a neck-tie Let every man 
be neat; and if he has taste, let him use it; but 
let no costume be so elegant that the admiring 
observer forgets that there is a man within. As 
to Phil, he made too much of an effort. Heroes 
ought to dress well spontaneously, just as a pea- 
cock has better clothes than an ordinary cock 
without trying. 

Picture to yourself a laughing morning in July. 
Put in plenty of clouds, and paint them with 
straightgraybasesandhumpy white backs scur- 
rying across the sky before a southwest sea 
breeze. Imagine Mrs. Watson and Lucy driving 
down to the beach with an elegantly dressed 
dark-haired cavalier ridingbesidethem on a bay 
horse. Put plenty of pink morning glories on 
each side of the road; and pepper with red the 
long grass just beyond the stone walls to show 
84 



OF A PROMISE 

that it will be ready for the mowing machine 
to-morrow or the day after. Don't paint in any 
trees, for there aren't any trees. Set down three 
or four coasting schooners and a rakish steam 
yacht on that reach of blue water ahead, stretch- 
ing from Point Judith on the east to no one 
knows where on the west. Now give us the roar 
of the Atlantic just loud enough to be heard 
above the clang of the horses' hoofs. There: 
that's right. 

"How well you ride, Mr. Kirke!" 

"Malicious! But I'm glad you said it." 

"Why?" 

"Because in the first place it shows you think 
I'm worth being made fun of ; and in the second 
— Whoa, Roy! — it's a compliment, and entitles 
me to give you one in exchange. If Mrs. Watson 
weren't here, I should say that I never saw you 
looking so splendidly as you do this minute." 

"Why should my being here make any dif- 
ference, Mr. Kirke?" 

"Because you're a matron, and matron's are 
supposed to frown on compliments. But perhaps 
in cases where they know how it feels, they don't 
object to their little charges' receiving them." 

"I'm not a little charge! I take charge of Mrs. 
Watson; don't I, Mrs. Watson?" 

"You certainly never do anything I tell you, 
my dear." 

"Now that's too bad ! I appeal to you, Mr. 
Kirke. Aren't I — I mean, Am I not obedient?" 

"Wait a moment and I'll see. — Be fond of me. 
Miss Fellowes!" 

"Certainly, Mr. Kirke, since you wish it." 

"That's a good girl. I'm afraid you're wrong, 
Mrs. Watson: she really is obedient." 

Monotaug Beach is apart of the long stretch 
of hard sand that extends from Point Judith to 

85 



THE TWO SIDES 

Watch Hill without a break. To the east the 
Monotaug bather can see the white tower of 
Point Judith light house: to the south he looks 
out upon the high shores of Block Island, break- 
ing the monotony of the ocean horizon. The ten 
or a dozen members of the Monotaug Fishing 
Gang make their home in a ridiculously small 
house perched on the sand bluff, with a green 
schooner sailing above it by way of weather- 
cock. When Phil and the two ladies walked 
down to the shore, they had to step cautiously 
so as not to entangle their feet in a seine that 
was spread out over the soft sand. The net was 
broken here and there, and half a dozen fisher- 
men with bare feet sticking out of their oilskin 
trousers sat silently mending it. They nodded 
to Phil as he passed, but the advent of the ladies 
had no effect on their hats. Two old fellows had 
hauled their boat down to the shore and were 
just putting out to sea. In spite of stiff legs they 
climbed in promptly ; and sat politely facing each 
other,one backingwhile theother pulled. Board- 
ers had driven over from Conantuck and were 
bathing with the shouts and motions character- 
istic of non-swimmers. Children were making 
sand forts with a grave demeanor which con- 
trasted strangely with the splashing and shriek- 
ing of their parents. 

"I wish you'd criticise my swimming, Mr. 
Kirke." 

"Well; all right. There — that's good — slower 
— keep your hands together longer — never mind 
that, keep it up — what did you stop for? I'll tell 
you the trouble, Miss Fellowes, you don't kick 
out viciously enough." 

"Well, I'll try again. There ! — is that any bet- 
ter?" 

"Yes, that's better— No it isn't either! Why 
86 



OF A PROMISE 

don't you get mad with the water? The trouble 
is with your character, Miss Fellowes. You're 
so much used to giving in to people that you 
won't even treat the water badly." 

"I didn't ask you to criticise my character." 
"Well, you can't swim without character." 
"Fishes do." 

"Yes, but that isn't a parallel case. It doesn't 
take any more character for a fish to swim than 
for a woman to walk; but you take a woman 
who can swim well or a fish who can walk well, 
and there you have character." 

"Something which you think I don'tpossess." 
"I don't mean that at all. All I mean is that 
you're a great deal nicer to people than they de- 
serve, and that your amiability extends to the 
ocean. Just remember that the Atlantic likes to 
be kicked, and then kick it." 

Lucy hated to be present when Phil and her 
father were talking. Neither of the two men knew 
or cared about the other's characteristics or 
tastes,yet such is the unconsciousgenius of those 
who dislike each other that the most astounding 
knowledge of character combined with the most 
devilish ingenuity and malice could not have 
devised more annoying things than they man- 
aged to say to each other. Philip Kirke was a 
first-rate fellow, and Lucy 's father was not with- 
out a good point or two, but when they were to- 
gether they seemed like Satan and Beelzebub 
trying to stamp on each other's toes. For the 
characteristics of a compound depend on the 
reaction of the constituent parts, not on the na- 
ture of those parts. Saltpetre is an innocent sub- 
stance ; and charcoal too, though black, is harm- 
less ; but put them together and make them talk, 
and there's the devil to pay. 

87 



THE TWO SIDES 

There is about as much use in trying to make 
one of our friends like another as there is in tell- 
ing a boy to like onions. Either he will like them 
or he won't : trying to make him renders him 
suspicious. A friend, like farmer Anderson's old 
mare, is a hard horse to drive even if you know 
how. "Ef you strike her in the hinder parts, it 
ain't goin' to be any use whatever; but ef you 
hit her for'ards, maybe she'll go." 

Lucy's attempts to make her father and Phil 
like each other had the same effect as a few fee- 
ble blows administered on the hinder parts of 
Mr. Anderson's mare. Perhaps the most inju- 
dicious thing she did was to tell Phil that he re- 
minded her of her father. It was hard for Phil to 
bear this even from Lucy; and the only comfort 
he could get was by letting fly an extra number 
of satire-poisoned arrows at the old gentleman 
the next time they met. Mr. Fellowes responded 
with a broadside of boomerangs, and for half an 
hour or so there was a very pretty battle. The 
fact that Lucy was between them, and that 
whether their missiles reached their aim or not 
they always hit her, did not occur to either of 
the combatants. 

There is a state — I know not whether to call 
it happy or unhappy — wherein two young peo- 
ple see nothing but each other ; hear nothing but 
each other; feel nothing but each other's pres- 
ence — and as for tasting and smelling, they do 
neither. Are they in Heaven? Surely not; for 
they think of no one but themselves, and for the 
most part they are wretched. Are they in Hell? 
No; for they would not change their state for 
any other. Are they insane? Yes, but tempor- 
arily and with a healthy insanity : a good thing 
to be through with, like the mumps. Each sees 
88 



OF A PROMISE 

the other through a magnifying glass, and really 
thinks that all other observers are mistaken. All 
the world loves a lover — but with an unrequited 
love. For the lover, by means of that same mag- 
nifying glass of his, captures all the burning rays 
of affection that radiate from his heart, and con- 
verges them on one insignificant person, while 
all the world else may go shiver for all he cares. 
Fools? Like enough; but we all have been fools 
of that sort, or else are going to be. As for me, 
I confess that when I see a man lovesick, I feel 
like the author of "The Saint's Rest" when he 
saw a jail-bird escorted to the gallows. "There, 
but for the grace of God, goes Richard Baxter." 
"What! "cries the reader, "And is there then no 
hope? Must every one be such an idiot?" Yes, 
yes, Reader; and so don't make a fuss about it. 
Every one must be ; and if you and I never have 
been, it's because we're young. 

Why was it that Lucy and Phil fell in love? 
Well, why is it that the ivy trembles and laughs 
and dances when the summer rain falls upon it? 
Why does the old horse start like a three-year 
old when he catches sight of the bright-shirted 
jockeys and the grand stand and the long white 
fence ? Why does the thrush make the lake a par- 
adise when the sun has gone down, and the wind 
has died away, and the evening star has turned 
from white to gold? Why does a good woman 
take you by the hand and look into your eyes 
and tell you that she, at least, believes in you? 
You know, don't you? Well that was the reason. 

It was in the early part of August that Phil 
asked Lucy to be his wife. They were sitting 
under the trees on the shore of a little pond. It 
was a secluded place — perhaps no one had been 
there since one of King Philip's warriors sent a 
squaw down to gather water-lilies. Lucy was 

89 



THE TWO SIDES 

reading aloud, something of Stevenson's. A cat- 
bird was singing in an alder bush behind them. 
Aturtle was dreaming of Heaven on a sun-baked 
rock close by. Blue dragon flies danced through 
the air or balanced on the tips of slender water- 
weeds. Suddenly a kingfisher flew chattering 
across the pond. Lucy glanced up from her book, 
and blushed to find that Phil had been looking 
at her. Then it was that he spoke and she an- 
swered him. 

Heaven and Hell, though differing in some 
important points, resemble each other, I imag- 
ine, at least in one particular. In both places, the 
shock of arrival probably subdues for a time the 
excessivelykeen emotions which the soul would 
otherwise experience. Philip Kirke's sudden en- 
try into a temporary paradise was too much for 
his faculties. For hours after he left Lucy he did 
not know what he was about. He was much in 
the condition of a man who has been deprived 
of reason by someterriblegrief, except that such 
a man gropes because it is dark, and Phil could 
not see because there was too much light. He 
wandered off among the hills, and, lying back 
among the huckleberry bushes, looked up at the 
sky, thinking of nothing at all — or was it every- 
thing? Scraps of what Lucy had said began to 
recur to him : broken phrases all alive with the 
emphasis of her voice. He repeated them aloud. 
Then he lay still again, looking at the clouds and 
remembering how she had put up her lips duti- 
fully like a little child when she bade him good- 
bye. 

Endymion doubtless thought it a wonderful 

thing that Diana should fall in love with him ; 

and I must confess I agree with him, for of all 

the little pink and white heroes I ever heard of, 

90 



OF A PROMISE 

he was the worst. Philip Kirke, too, chose to re- 
gard it as an astonishing fact that Lucy preferred 
him to all the other young men in the world. It 
would have been astonishing if it had been true. 
But, as Phil would have seen, if his head had 
not been in the clouds, Lucy had not made the 
acquaintance of all the youngmen in the world ; 
and, if she had, she would probably have pre- 
ferred several thousand of themto Phil. The nec- 
essary smallness of a young woman's acquaint- 
ance is a most fortunate circumstance for those 
of us who may be described as Nature's Com- 
moners. 

After some hours of paralytic rest, the sensa- 
tions proper to Phil's situation came bounding 
upon him like a pack of hungry wolves. But in 
order adequately to describe the thoughts of a 
lover, it is necessary to fall in love yourself; and 
much as I wish to oblige the Reader, I cannot 
undertake to carry my complaisance to such an 
extent. I will, then, merely say that Phil had the 
feelings of an accepted lover, whatever those 
feelings may be, and the Reader, who is him- 
self, perhaps, in a position to understand them, 
may sweeten according to experience. 

In the evening Phil walked up to Lucy's house. 
He found her alone in the drawing room. She 
was reading at a little table. She had on the same 
white waist and black walking skirt that she had 
worn in the morning. A faded spray of azalea 
that Phil had picked stood on the table by her 
side and made the room over-sweet. When she 
heard his step, she started up, dropping her book 
on the floor. Her face was white and there were 
tears in her eyes. He had never seen her look 
so plain : she was almost ugly. He felt from her 
expression that she was afraid of him : hostile 

9i 



THE TWO SIDES 

to him. She did not shake hands, and kept the 
table between them,as if she feared that he would 
try to come nearer. Then she stood looking at 
him, her hands clenched, her face a picture of 
distress. Phil knew somehow that his dream had 
come to an end. He forced himself to smile. 

"Well, Lucy," he said with an approach to 
coolness, "I was sure this morning's happiness 
couldn't last. What is it.^ I suppose you've 
changed your mind?" 

Lucy's words came without expression as if 
she had learned them by heart. 

"I had no right to say I would marry you, and 
now I want you to give me back my promise." 

"Oh, certainly. Delighted, I'm sure. May I 
ask why? — Or possibly your motives, though 
excellent, are hard to explain?" 

"I promised my father only a few months ago 
that I would never marry while he lived." 

"Oh, that's it? So you never meant to marry 
me? I beg your pardon! I thought you were in 
earnest this morning. I assure you I've been in 
heaven for the last few hours : quite a little par- 
adise! And the rest of my life is of no conse- 
quence. How came you to try such an ingenious 
experiment? Just to see what I'd do?" 

"I ought to have told you, but I loved you so 
much that I could not — and I thought Papa 
would change. I have appealed to him, and he 
holds me to my promise." 

"And how about your promise to me?" 

"That was no promise, for to carry it out 
would be to break a promise I had already made. 
I will carry it out in so far as I can. I shall never 
marry any one — Phil, and I shall love you all 
my life." 

"Oh, don't trouble yourself about that : please 
don't! Marry any one you like; and as to your 
92 



OF A PROMISE 

affection, I have received such overwhelming 
proofs of it to-day that I must confess I should 
really feel more comfortable if you bestowed it 
on some one else. Pardon me for not being more 
impressed by your promises, Lucy; but you see 
it's just possible that you promised your father 
the opposite only a few months ago. In such a 
case the more recent promises are no promises, 
and must be broken immediately." 

"Don't be cruel, Phil." 

"Cruel? That's the last thing I shall be. Just 
wait a minute while I promise you a few things 
to calm you down. I tell you, there's nothing in 
the world like promises ! I hereby promise to love 
you all my life ; but don't believe me, for yester- 
day I promised another girl the same thing. I 
also promise to fling your father into the pond ; 
but that I can't carry out either, for only a few 
months ago I promised not to touch him with 
a ten-foot pole. — Look here, Lucy, what are you 
talking about? Do you really mean to say you 
won't marry me till your father dies? Why, the 
man may live fifty years!" 

"I hoped I should be able to persuade him to 
let us marry if we were willing to live with him, 
but"— 

"Live with him! I'd rather live with the 
devil!" 

Here Kirke looked round and saw Mr. Fel- 
lowes standing behind him. But the young man 
was wrought to a pitch too high for embarrass- 
ment. 

"Pardon me, Mr. Fellowes. I just observed 
that I'd rather live with the devil than with you. 
I should not have said so if I had known you 
were in the room. But your daughter has been 
behaving so strangely that I am not quite mas- 
ter of myself. You see this morning she prom- 

93 



THE TWO SIDES 

ised to marry me ; and now she says she won't. 
What should you advise me to do?" 

*'I should advise you to leave the house, Mr. 
Kirke — to go home as soon as you can." 

"Excellent advice, sir ; and I shall not be slow 
to act upon it. But first just a word, for I want 
you to understand what to expect from me. Some 
men in my position would follow your daughter 
about and annoy her, and eventually persuade 
her to marry them in spite of her conscience and 
your — regard for your own interests. I shall not. 
Your daughter has said she will not marry me. 
I take her at her word. She says she will never 
marry any one else. I do not believe her. At any 
rate, I shall make no such statement. People say 
a man gets over these things. Naturally it seems 
impossible to me; but if I ever do get over it, I 
shall thank God, and if I find a good woman will- 
ing to marry me, I shall marry her. I am at least 
not fool enough to suppose that just because one 
woman is false, all women are so. 

"And now you'll be glad to learn that I'm 
about to bid you g^ood-bye. I hope you'll permit 
me to take that liberty, for I doubt if I shall ever 
see you or your daughter again." 

He shook hands with Mr. Fellowes, and then 
turned to Lucy, who had not moved since she 
first rose from her chair. She let him take her 
hand. 

"Good-bye, Lucy." 

She was silent. 

He went out of the room and then out of the 
house. He had not taken a dozen steps along 
the avenue when Lucy came running out from 
the front door. At the piazza steps she checked 
herself .She could see his form disappearing into 
the blackness. 

"Phil!" 
94 



OF A PROMISE 

He must have heard, but he did not look back. 

Lucy never upbraided her father for what he 
had done : she merely formed a new opinion of 
him. Lif ebecame a foolish ironical dream to her. 
She wandered listlessly about the house forget- 
ting the little duties which had once made the 
day so short; neglecting the dexterous touches 
with which she had once made the house into 
a home. She listened with grave inattention to 
her father's profound commonplaces. Like the 
Spartan boy, she gave no open sign that some- 
thing was eating her heart. She even smiled 
sometimes, when she thought it was expected 
of her. Once she laughed. It v/as when her father 
was reading the paper aloud and skipped a pas- 
sage about Phil's going to California. 

She dreamed about Phil every night. He was 
never angry or sarcastic in dreams, but always 
as he had been that morning by the pond. In 
the day-time he was constantly in her mind, no 
matter what else she was thinking about; and 
she was not foolish enough to try to expel him. 
Her thoughts came back to him as a matter of 
course after every excursion, just as Cato's 
speeches were all brought to a close by "Car- 
thage must be destroyed." She did not blame 
him for the cruel things he had said to her : she 
wished he had said more so that she might have 
more to forgive. 

She wondered what sort of a woman he would 
marry. She did not expect him to wait long be- 
fore he fell in love again, but she hoped he would 
wait as much as twoyears.She wished she could 
see the woman he would choose. There were 
so many things she had to tell her : little things 
she had noticed that Phil liked. And then she 
remembered how even before Phil had asked 

95 



THE TWO SIDES 

her to marry him, she had foolishly thought over 
what sort of house they would live in, and how 
she would arrange the parlor, and how she and 
Phil would sit together on the sofa in front of 
the fire-place — and then it all came over her that 
they would never sit there together, and a sob 
burst its way out, and the tears began to gather, 
and she did not wipe them away, for she was 
safe in her own little blue room where no one 
could get at her. 

"She'll be tall and dark," she went on to her- 
self, "for he'll want her to be as different from 
me as possible. I hope she'll be nice and he'l] 
be happy with her, but I'm glad he loved me 
first, for he did love me. 'I haven't thought o 
anything but you for a long time, Lucy,' — tha 
was what he said. — Tall and dark, I think, anc^ 
she'll carry herself well : he can't bear people* 
that stoop. And she'll be very true and constant. 
He said he didn't think all women were — were 
false just because I was so. I wasn't false, Phil ! 
Didn't you know that when I called you back 
I was going to give myself to you promise or no 
promise? And you wouldn't look round! 

"Let's see, she'll be tall and dark, — but not 
very sympathetic, I'm afraid. — I wish I could 
see her!" 

Mr. Fellowes did not concern himself much 
with his daughter's sufferings. As he observed 
to Mrs. Watson, he had seen a great many per- 
sons disappointed in love, and they all had got 
over it sooner or later. Why grief should be dis- 
regarded merely because it is temporary, he did 
not explain. Possibly he reserved his sympathy 
for those of his friends who had reached a place 
where suffering may be regarded as tolerably 
permanent. 
96 



OF A PROMISE 

But though he had character enough not to 
grieve over Lucy's little disappointment, some- 
how he could not manage to derive the pleasure 
he ought to have had from knowing that he had 
done the right thing. The consciousness of per- 
fection is like a wife, not quite so exciting after 
you have had it for fifty years. He met General 
Kirke out driving, and instead of answering his 
bow the general scowled, swore, and drove on. 
When a man is treated like that abroad, he 
needs consideration at home. Butsomething had 
got into his womenfolk. Mrs. Watson behaved 
queerly.He explained carefully to her how what 
he had done was for the best, but though she 
really tried, she could not understand. He felt 
it rather hard that Lucy, who had always given 
him sympathy when he did not want it, should 
refuse it just when he needed it most. It was a 
disagreeable position, but some men know what 
to do in an emergency. And just as Napoleon, 
when he found he was not appreciated in Rus- 
sia, left his army to go to rack and ruin and hur- 
ried back to Paris, so Mr. Fellowes left Mono- 
taugto mourn for him and took the express train 
for New Haven. 

It was very quiet in the house on the hill after 
he had gone. Mrs. Watson had had disappoint- 
ments herself, and she knew what Lucy felt. 
With a self-control greater than William the 
Silent ever showed,she put a bridle on her kind- 
ly, gossiping little tongue, and let Lucy dream 
her dreams in peace. She dragged her plump lit- 
tle body over the hills and picked wild flowers 
for Lucy's room. In the evening when Lucy sat 
on the piazza watching the stars come trembling 
into the sky, Mrs. Watson would sit beside her, 
holding her hand in a gentle motherly way, and 
looking at her from time to time to make her 

97 



THE TWO SIDES 

smile. At night she went down on her knees and 
prayed for Lucy. And although she was a squatty 
little woman without much of a figure,somehow 
the idea of her kneeling down there by the bed- 
side doesn't make me want to laugh. Women 
aren't very good things to laugh at, anyway. 

Mrs. Watson did not know much. She did not 
even know that a crushed strawberry dress is 
not becoming to a woman of sixty. She had a 
vague idea that Alexander the Great was a Czar 
of Russia; and she never could remember 
whether it was King Alfred or King Arthur who 
burnt the cakes. She was distinctly common- 
place. But somehow or other she had got it into 
her head that when a woman is enduring a great 
sorrow, she wants to have people love her and 
doesn't want to have them talk. And acting on 
this knowledge she said very little to Lucy and 
loved her with all her might. And commonplace 
women can beat the world at loving, God bless 
them ! and I think that's one reason why we take 
our hats off when we meet them. 

One evening, perhaps a week after Mr. Fel- 
lowes* departure, Mrs. W^atson and Lucy were 
sitting on the front piazza looking at the last 
streaks of the sunset fade out from the sky. Lucy 
was in a long deck chair, while her comforter 
sat close by in a seat that was her favorite be- 
cause it had such short legs. A tree-toad was 
gallantly trying to hold his own against two 
crickets, but the crickets were getting the better 
of him because they could spell each other. As 
it grew darker, the light-houses began to stare 
at them like distant Polyphemuses, first Point 
Judith, then one of the Block Island Lights, then 
the other, then Montauk, far away to the west. 
Point Judith and Montauk kept winking : the 
98 



OF A PROMISE 

other two glared. Just the least suspicion of a 
breeze sprang up. Lucy shivered, and Mrs. Wat- 
son brought her a wrap. From the ocean there 
came a quiet murmur, so low that they would 
not have heard it in the day-time. The outline 
of Scorpio began to come out above Block Is- 
land. The wind died away. Lucy disengaged her 
hand from her shawl and held it out to the com- 
monplace woman beside her. Mrs. Watson took 
it into her comfortable little keeping without a 
word. The silence became more complete.Even 
the crickets and the tree-toad stopped at last, 
and nothing was left but the passionless requiem 
of the ocean. 

Wheels crunching the gravel ! Who could it 
be? Not Mr. Fellowes, surely : he always wrote 
to say when he was coming. Mrs. Watson started 
up and strained her eyes to see who it was ; while 
Lucy, who did not care if it was Mr. Cleveland, 
lay back in her chair watching Scorpio. The car- 
riage drew nearer — it was one of the railroad 
station carry-alls — in the front seat no one but 
a driver — two passengers behind — one was Mr. 
Fellowes. — 

"It's your father, Lucy; but who's the lady 
with him?" 

Lucy rose slowly and waited without excite- 
ment for the carriage to stop. The driver pulled 
up his horse, and Mr. Fellowes got out, turning 
round to give the lady his hand. 

*'Well, Lucy, here's the little visitor I wrote 
you of," he said, his voice trembling in an un- 
natural way. 

As the stranger stepped down from the car- 
riage, Lucy recognized her in spite of the grow- 
ing darkness. She was a certain Virginia Has- 
brouck, a girl whom Lucy had known slightly 
in New Haven. Lucy remembered her as being 

99 



THE TWO SIDES 

handsome and a little underbred. What was she 
doing here? 

Miss Hasbrouck mounted the piazza steps. 
Lucy gravely held out her hand. 

"I'm very glad to see you, Miss Hasbrouck," 
she said. "I hope you'll excuse what must seem 
to you a cold reception. I never received the let- 
ter Papa speaks of, and so I didn't know you 
were coming, but it doesn't make a bit of dif- 
ference: everything's all ready and I'm delighted 
to have you here." 

What was the matter? Instead of replying, 
Miss Hasbrouck only giggled. Mr. Fellowes 
seemed embarrassed. Could it be that they were 
engaged? 

Lucy was about to introduce her unexpected 
guest to Mrs. Watson when suddenly Miss Has- 
brouck burst out laughing. 

"Well, I declare, John!" she cried: "If that 
isn't the worst! I believe I forgot to mail your 
letter ! No wonder Lucy never got it !" 

Lucy and Mrs. Watson looked at each other. 

Mr. Fellowes coughed, and seemed even more 
uncomfortable than before. "I see that some ex- 
planation is needed," he began, ponderously. "I 
am sorry you did not receive my letter. That 
would have prepared you for what must now 
proveasurprise — Ihopenot an unpleasant one." 
He coughed again. "Lucy; you and Mrs. Wat- 
son have perhaps made some surmises as to the 
object of my frequent visits to New Haven. I 
did not inform you at the time what that object 
might be, for fear I might be disappointed in it. 
Fortunately" — here he smiled at Virginia — "for- 
tunately I was not. — Lucy, I want you to un- 
derstand that everything is to go on as before. 
Virginia is prepared to love you as a sister, and 
I do not want you to think that she makes any 
100 



OF A PROMISE 

difference in my love for you. 'Not that I love 
Caesar less, but that I love Rome more."* 

He paused. Lucy's brain swam. Was he go- 
ing crazy? Virginia threw back her head,laughed 
aloud, and then came to a sudden stop. 

"What he's trying to say is that we're mar- 
ried," she said shortly, and burst out laughing 
again. 

Lucy's heart gave an angry leap. She could 
not think. She felt weary, sick. Her body began 
to sway to and fro a little, and Mrs. Watson took 
her arm that she might not fall. 
Mr. Fellowes felt bound to go on. 
"I don't mind saying, Lucy," he said with a 
nervous little laugh, ''that I did not tell you of 
the wedding till after it had taken place, because 
—because I feared you might not approve ; espe- 
cially as your recent disappointment has — very 
excusably — rendered you temporarily not — not 
quite sympathetic. I was afraid that you might 
imagine that both you and I had voluntarily de- 
barred ourselves from the right of marrying. If 
you reflect, I think you will remember that I 
never actually made such a promise. Indeed, six 
months ago the apparent impossibility of my 
present bliss"— here he smiled again at his wife 
— "would have seemed to render such a declar- 
ation unnecessary. Perhaps a promise was im- 
plied. — That was what troubled me. In fine, I 
did not wish to pain you by telling you of my 
glorious crime before I could showyouthesplen- 
did apology!" 

He might have been speaking Welsh for aught 
Lucy knew. But when he had ended she made 
one fierce effort, leaned hard on the kind arm 
that supported her, recovered herself at last, and 
stood erect. 

"I think you have never met Mrs. Watson," 

JOJ 



THE TWO SIDES 

she said to Virginia. — " Mrs. Watson,this is Mrs. 
Fellowes. And now you must be tired, and it's 
cold and dark out here. Come upstairs and let 
me show you your room." 

When Lucy came downstairs amoment later, 
she found her father in the hall waiting to talk 
with her. He took her hand. 

"Of course you are to live with us, my dear," 
he said, hurriedly. "Virginia is especially desir- 
ous of it. And I don't want you on any account 
to think that I have forgotten your mother. Vir- 
ginia doesnotwishmetodothat.Yourmother" — 

He was interrupted by a cry from upstairs. 

"John! John!" his wife called from the ban- 
ister. "Just come up to our room a minute! I 
want to talk things over! I do think it's all the 
best joke I ever came across!" 

I should like to end my story here, but I see 
that before it comes to that, I must obliterate 
a false impression that the Reader's mind has 
somehow received. The Reader seems to think 
that it was all Mr. Fellowes' fault that Phil and 
Lucy did not marry each other. 

Now, without saying a word in favor of Mr. 
Fellowes — who was, as Horace Greeley once 
said of a man, "one of the least of God's mer- 
cies" — I think I can show that others were to 
blame as well as he. And, in the first place, what 
right had Phil to put on that "Take me or leave 
me"tonewiththewomanheloved,andgostamp- 
ing off like a third rate actor just because things 
were a little black, and the poor child wavered 
for a minute ? Why, if he had turned round in the 
avenue when she called him, and said "Lucy!" 
in a way that I can't imitate, but which he had 
right at his tongue's end, she would have come 
running down the steps into his arms, and it 
t02 



OF A PROMISE 

would have taken more than that pompous old 
idiot in the house to separate them after that ! 
But no ! Phil's back was up ; and he must have 
the pleasure of keeping it in that position even 
if he broke his own heart and Lucy's too. The 
little fool! There's not a back in the world that 
won't bend— aye, and break, too, if Fate has a 
mmd to break it. I declare the boy got what he 
deserved, and I should be glad of it, if it wasn't 
for Lucy. 

And yet, although I cannot help being fond 
of Lucy, I must say I sometimes lose patience 
with her, too. Of course it was very grand, her 
sticking to her promise and sending poor Phil 
to the right about, but what business had she to 
make that scurvy promise in the first place? I 
tell you, Reader, we have no right to draw 
cheques of that sort on our futures. When I hear, 
as I often do, of a girl going on oath again and 
agam that she will never marry because her 
uncle is crazy, or because she has an invalid 
mother to take care of, or because her grand- 
inother was a negress, it makes me positively 
sick. Oh, it's easy enough to go swearing about, 
resignmgaflimsy indefinite lover thatyou never 
saw; but when you find that a living, breathing 
man is telling you that he loves you, when you 
feel his great strong hand grasping yours, and 
see tears in eyes that haven't known them for 
twenty years, and hear plain words of reverence 
and love coming hot from his honest old heart, 
then it is that you begin to lose interest in that 
ass of an uncle! 

By all this violence I do not wish to distract 
the Reader's indignation from Mr. Fellowes. 
In fact I rather like to see that gentleman put 
on the defensive. It is pretty obvious that he had 
no right to marry after he had prevented Lucy 

J03 



from doing so. His splendid apology was not 
splendid enough. Mr. Fellowes, however, as I 
before took occasion to remark, perhaps to the 
Reader's surprise, was not without his good 
points. He almost never swore, and he never 
over-reached a man in business unless it was 
quite excusable and he could make a pretty good 
thing of it. He was rather mean to the young 
men who came to see his daughter, but they had 
no especial reason to complain, for he was mean 
to a great many other persons, too. And as to 
his treatment of Lucy, most fathers dislike hav- 
ing their daughters married, and do a little — a 
very little — to prevent it. Very likely there is 
some good, adequate, unselfish reason for it. 
Perhaps, Reader, as they used to say when we 
were children, "We'll understand when we get 
older." 



SIXTEEN 



A sweet ignorer of the laws 

Of etiquette and rules of dress, 
And ten times prettier because 

She knows not of her prettiness! 

With childish ardor unrepressed 
She chatters in her girlish way, 

And never doubts our interest 
In everything she has to say. 

She tells us just how much she spends: 
She talks about her dog and horse, 

About her best and next best friends 
As if we knew them all of course. 

It seems as if all things combined 

To make her radiantly glad: 
Every good time is to her mind 

The best good time she ever had. 

What though the Future beckon her? 

What though her youth must pass away? 
Are not the flowers the lovelier 

Because they only last a day? 

And yet, when perfect buds unfold, 
We softly grieve for what has been ; 

Dear Alice, must you too grow old? 
Can you not always be sixteen? 



ANTAEUS IN LOVE 






The first time Harold Vaughn met Emily 
Rogers was at Hereford Neck, on the shore of 
Connecticut, in the summer of 1885. They were 
both visiting Mrs. McKinney, and saw each 
other constantly for two weeks. Harold went 
away first. On the day that he left the Neck he 
was in a fair way towards falling in love. He 
liked Miss Rogers better than any other woman 
he knew. If a further acquaintance should con- 
firm a two weeks' impression, he thought he 
should ask her to marry him. While the train 
hurried him to Boston, he could see her in his 
mind's eye as she had stood on the McKinneys' 
piazza waving him a farewell. She had worn a 
sailor hat with a white ribbon, a white shirt- 
waist with blue stripes, and a dark blue skirt; 
and her simple apparel seemed perfect to Har- 
old, — for Emily Rogers was one of those who 
lend elegance to any costume. She was tall, dark, 
and handsome. Hers was a face that took pre- 
cedence; it was by no means perfect when she 
was alone ; but when surrounded by other faces, 
it was apt to be the handsomest. 

After leaving the Neck, Vaughn did not see 
Miss Rogers again for two months. As soon as 
he heard that she had returned to Milton for the 
summer, he took the train and called on her. As 
he anticipated,she was not one to forget a friend. 
Her greeting at Milton was as cordial as her 
farewell at Hereford. She asked him to come 
again,— and he did. His Hereford estimate of 
her was sustained : it could not be exalted. She 

J07 



ANTAEUS 
began to fill his thoughts more and more. She 
interfered with his work. When he imagined he 
was looking up something in the Massachusetts 
Reports, he would suddenly find that he was 
thinking of Emily Rogers instead. He lost his 
interest in the other girls he knew. He paid ab- 
surd attention to little points of behavior in 
which she had hinted that he was deficient. He 
stopped himself from doing several mean things 
by asking himself how Emily would like it, and 
in each case told her about it afterwards. He 
attributed to her a degree of excellence which 
she did not possess, priding himself all the time 
on his critical insight into her character. He 
called her "Miss Rogers, ' ' — but always thought 
of her as "Emily." He looked conscious when 
he spoke of her. He was in love. 

There was no reason in the world why Harold 
Vaughn should not marry, provided he found 
some one to his liking who would marry him. 
He was twenty-eight years old. For so young 
a lawyer he had an excellent practice; and his 
father was rich and generous. In such circum- 
stances it is no wonder that as soon as he was 
sure that he was in love with Emily Rogers, he 
determined to marry her. He had been too uni- 
formly successful in everything he had under- 
taken to be very doubtful of his success. When 
he was at the primary school,hehad determined 
to take the prize in spelling, and he had suc- 
ceeded. At the Latin School, he had determined 
to be first in his class and half-back on the foot- 
ball team, and again he had succeeded. On grad- 
uating, he had determined to be the first lawyer 
in Boston, and, when he was twenty-eight, it 
would have been hard to point out another law- 
yer of his age with a practice like his. He was 
used to success. It would have been affectation 
t08 



IN LOVE 

if he had pretended eveii to himself that he was 

afraid Emily Rogers would not marry him. 

Harold Vaughn was a great schemer. Most 
young men drift on and on through the days of 
courtship, without any definite plan, till finally 
they gain sufficient courage to ask their lady 
loves to marry them. But Harold Vaughn never 
drifted. Whatever he was doing, he always laid 
a plan of campaign ; and even when he was in 
love, this military habit did not forsake him. 

Miss Rogers was devotedly attached to her 
family. She had a great respect for their opin- 
ions. If he could win his way into the family, if 
he could make himself necessary to them, if he 
could make them all fond of him, he did not doubt 
that he could carry his point. The influence of 
a girl's family is tremendous. Their jeers and 
criticisms turn the scale against many a baffled 
admirer.May not their praises establish the suc- 
cess of a suitor who probably would not fail even 
without their assistance ? 

Mr.Rogerswasasuccessful commission mer- 
chant with a large income. He was stern, and 
his wife was mild. Their three children were as 
fine a set of young people as you would wish to 
see. Emily was a noble-minded girl of twenty- 
three. Alice was twenty-one. She was of gen- 
tler mould than her sister; most people thought 
her the prettier. Harold thought otherwise. John 
Rogers was a spirited young base-ball player 
of fifteen. Taken all in all, it was a healthy, happy 
family, with a great deal of mutual affection, a 
fair share of brains, and plenty of money. There 
was a very strong family feeling among the Rog- 
erses, and a corresponding lack of interest in 
other people. They were all critical, each in his 
own way; and visitors who heard others criti- 
cised could not help feeling that they would 

109 



ANTAEUS 
come in for their turn as soon as their backs 
were turned. Mr. Rogers and his family Hved 
sumptuously. They had a magnificent house, 
large and elegant grounds, and everything they 
wanted. 

Mrs. Rogers took agreat likingto Mr. Vaughn 
immediately, so that all he had to do with her 
was to confirm a good impression. He talked to 
her sympathetically about her family troubles. 
He found that she had a literary turn, so he read 
her Austin Dobson's poems while she mended 
her husband's stockings. He gave her advice 
about the management of John, who had just 
reached the age where he began to give her un- 
easiness. He found that she wrote verses, and 
he read them with some interest, for they were 
rather good. 

"Why, you haven't been here for almost a 
week, Mr. Vaughn!" 

"No. I've been obliged to run on to New York. 
I'm glad you missed me." 

"Cruel! I'm so sorry the girls are out." 

"I'm not." 

"Now, really, Mr. Vaughn, that won't do. You 
may be very fond of my company ; but you would 
hardly like to have Emily and Alice hear that 
you prefer it to theirs." 

"That's true, so don't tell them. I've brought 
you the new "Harper." I want to know what 
you think of this poem in it." 

The trouble with Alice was that she was too 
amiable. She was critical enough in her own 
fashion, but when people were present she was 
always nice to them. She was nice to Vaughn 
among the rest, but for the life of him he could 
not guess what she said of him when his back 
no 



IN LOVE 

was turned. It was evidently necessary to do 
something extraordinary to win her favor. Har- 
old made her the confidante of his future. All 
the daring schemes which he had made, some 
of them reaching to the President's and Chief 
Justice's chairs, he confided to her. And every 
interesting case he had he told her about in a 
very entertaining way. She could not help being 
interested in him. Often she was more excited 
than he over the pending event of a trial. 

"Well, Miss Alice, Weeden's agreed to come 
to terms." 

*'Oh, dear! I wish you could have fought it 
out! What does your client pay him?" 

"Two thousand eight hundred." 

"Oh, Mr. Vaughn ! Wouldn't it have been bet- 
ter to have put the case through?" 

"It might, I thought not. You know a con- 
scientious lawyer's chief concern is to prevent 
litigation. I think two thousand eight hundred is 
fair for my client. If I were Weeden I shouldn't 
be satisfied." 

"Oh, if I were only a lawyer !" 

"I should probably lose half my business." 

Mr. Rogers was generally considered a hard 
man to get at. It took Vaughn some time to find 
out the reason, but he discovered it at last. Every 
one was afraid of Mr. Rogers. Harold deter- 
mined to be the exception to this rule. He boldly 
entered Mr. Roger's private sitting-room and 
smoked a cigar with the merchant. He listened 
respectfully to the older man's political views, 
but gave emphatic reasons for totally disagree- 
ing with them. He made Mr. Rogers tell him 
anecdotes about his early life, and listened as if 
they were interesting. Mr. Rogers grew to think 



ANTAEUS 

him "obstinate but intelligent, really intelli- 
gent"; for Mr. Rogers was one of those people 
who repeat twice any word or sentiment that 
pleases them. 

"Ah, Vaughn, glad to see you. Take a cigar. 
Vaughn, I want to talk to you about something. 
I think of sending John to boarding school." 

"Well, Mr. Rogers, I think that's the worst 
thing you can do." 

"Your reasons, Vaughn, your reasons! You 
young men are too hasty." 

"In the first place, he loses his home influence. 
In the second, he learns to smoke and drink, and 
to swear as only boarding school boys can. In 
the third, he doesn't get such good teaching as 
at the Roxbury Latin School, where I want you 
to send him." 

"There's something in what you say, but not 
everything, Vaughn ; something, but not every- 
thing." 

With John, Harold had no trouble. John 
formed his opinion of a man largely on his skill 
in athletics. Harold joined in some of the boy's 
sports, just enough to show him that he could 
beat him at everything. He showed him how to 
pitch a base-ball with a very deceitful drop ; he 
played tennis with him, and never allowed him 
more than one game in a set ; he took him down 
to the Union Boat Club and taught him how to 
row a working boat. 

"John, you'll never learn to play tennis unless 
you give up striking the ball with a cut." 

"I think a cut's a good thing. It makes 'em 
bounce badly." 

"Nonsense ! It only makes them bounce badly 

ni 



IN LOVE 

on a soft court like yours. If you'd ever played 
at Newport, you'd see cuts didn't do much good. 
You want to strike them all hard and square, 
and place every ball you hit." 

Such were the measures which Harold pur- 
sued; and he was uniformly successful. The 
whole family was glad to see him when he came, 
and kept begging him to come oftener. It grew 
to be an acknowledged custom for him to stay 
to supper. He often spent the night. The family 
grew dependent on him for a great part of their 
amusement. The ladies lived a somewhat se- 
cluded life, and Mr. Vaughn knew everything 
and everybody. He brought them their new 
books. He took the girls to college athletics. He 
went with the family to the theatre. He could 
be depended upon as a standby at a dancing 
party. He grew to be a modified kind of brother. 
He was admitted to family gatherings where no 
one else but relations was allowed. He walked 
in at the front door without ringing, and was on 
the best of terms with the servants. He called 
Emily and Alice by their first names; and all 
the Rogerses called him "Harold," except Mr. 
Rogers, who never went beyond "Vaughn." In 
short, Harold had succeeded in the first part of 
what he had undertaken. In order to marry Em- 
ily Rogers,he had determined to become a friend 
of the entire Rogers family ; and now he had 
met with the success that resolution deserves. 
He was confident that in his attack upon an army 
of equal force he would have four stanch allies. 

It was on a summer afternoon three days be- 
fore the Rogerses left Milton for Narragansett 
Pier that Harold left his office with his mind 
made up to strike the fatal blow. He had told 

US 



ANTAEUS 
Emily through the telephone that he wanted to 
talk to her alone about something very impor- 
tant, so he was pretty sure the coast would be 
clear. His confidence in his success had forsaken 
him lately, — at least of immediate success. He 
knew she liked him, but he could not read any 
further into her mind. Emily was not one to be 
easily read. She had an excellent control over 
herself, and if she was in love with Harold she 
certainly never showed it. But Harold was fond 
of bold strokes. If she were in love with him, she 
would accept him ; if not, he would find it out, 
and no harm done. 

They walked along the garden path in silence 
for a time while Harold arranged his brief. 

"Emily, I think you're the finest girl in the 
world." 

"Then you're mistaken, Harold." 
"No, I'm not! And I want you to marry me, 
Emily. I know I don't deserve you ; but justthink 
what we could do together; just think" — 

"Oh, don't go on, Harold, don't go on! I was 
afraid of this ; not till lately, though. I used to 
think you were just fond of me in a brotherly 
way, the way you are of Alice; but lately" — 
"Emily, don't. you care for me at all?" 
"Of course I do, but not in that way." 
He had taken her hand in his first impulsive 
address to her, and she had not withdrawn it. 
She withdrew it now. Harold bit his lip. It was 
the hour of defeat; but he would not admit that 
he was beaten. 

"I suppose I can still be your friend, Emily." 
"I shall think it very kind if you don't desert 
me," she said ; "but we may as well end this sub- 
ject here and now. I don't want you to misun- 
derstand me. I'm sorry to say I've had some ex- 
perience in these things. I like you very much, 
n4 



IN LOVE 

Harold; but I will never marry you, — never, 

never! Do you understand?" 

"I understand, but I don't believe it, Emily.'* 

And with that he turned on his heel and walked 
away. 

So this was the end of the first act of the drama. 

She had a good enough opinion of him, but 
not the kind of opinion he wanted. He had been 
better off a year ago. Then she might have fallen 
in love with him, if he had started matters right ; 
now she considered herself incapable of loving 
him. He must change his tactics, that was clear. 
His being a friend of the family did not seem to 
have helped him much. His four allies did not 
seem tohave been of much use. They had doubt- 
less been of influence in making Emily like him ; 
but she liked him in a very unsatisfactory way. 
However, he might as well keep his allies, now 
that hehadhad so much trouble overthem.They 
might still be of some assistance to him,and then, 
besides, he had grown fond of them for their own 
sakes. After all, he was not entirely dissatisfied 
with his position. He had hoisted his colors, and 
now Emily knew that he was a lover, and not 
a friend. 

After the Rogerses had leftMilton, Vaughn had 
the whole summer for arranging his next cam- 
paign. He thought over the reasons for his fail- 
ure, and all possible ways for converting it into 
a success. The trouble was, he had been too 
much of a friend and too little of a lover. That 
must be all changed. He must be more open in 
his attentions. He must give her presents and 
write her verses. He might make a fool of him- 
self; but doesn't a girl like a man who makes a 
fool of himself for her sake? He had always 
treated her very much as he treated the rest of 

U5 



ANTAEUS 

the family. That system must be changed. He 
would show his preference now. He would make 
his calls on Emily, not on the Rogers family. 
He would see what alittlegenuine,open-hearted 
devotion would do. After all, the most straight- 
forward way to win a girl's heart is to make 
yourself as agreeable to her as you can. That 
is the simplest recipe, and the best. 

When the Rogerses came back the next au- 
tumn, Vaughn went out to welcome them home. 
Even on his first call, a close observer might 
have noticed a difference in his behavior from 
what it had been the year before. His conver- 
sation was now directed almost entirely towards 
Emily. He went to Milton often, as often as the 
year before, but his calls were on Emily, not on 
the family. He seldom stayed to supper ; he gen- 
erally came out in the evening, asked for Emily, 
and devoted himself to her almost exclusively 
until he went away. Of course every one noticed 
the difference : he wanted them to. He talked to 
Emily in a different style, too, from the way in 
which he had conversed with her the year be- 
fore. He humbled himself to her. Her opinions 
were the correct ones ; his were subordinate. He 
allowed her to contradict him, and acquiesced in 
all her decisions. His legal friends would hardly 
haverecognizedtheir opinionated and overbear- 
ing comrade in this meek young man, submit- 
ting with a perfect grace to surprising statements 
which his iron brain and heartless logic could 
have overturned in an instant. 

"I'm afraid I'm coming here too oftenj Emily. 
I hope I don't bore you." 

"No. You don't bore me at all ; but I think that 
perhaps it would be better if you didn't come 
quite so often." 

"All right, then, if you say so, I won't come 
U6 



IN LOVE 

QUITE SO often. Oh, Emily, I want to tell you 
how glad I am that John isn't going to boarding 
school!" 

"I'm not glad at all; I think it would be the 
best thing he could do." 

"Yes, I don't doubt it would be good in many 
ways. But — well, you ought to know best, you 
know him so much better than I." 

"Well, then, I wish you hadn't advised papa 
to send him to the Roxbury Latin School. I did 
my best to prevent his going, but of course I 
couldn't do anything with papa." 

"I'm very sorry. Your father asked my advice, 
and I gave it as well as I could. I didn't know 
what you wanted then." 

When Emily had the measles that winter, 
Vaughn sent her flowers twice a week; none of 
your carnations or violets, but beautiful boxes 
of roses, a different kind each time. W^hen she 
was well again, he sent her candy till she told 
him to stop. He took her and her mother to mat- 
inees at the opera. He went to every dancing 
party that she went to, and danced with her 
as often as he dared. He took riding lessons, 
and, when he had acquired a decent seat, went 
riding with her. He took her to walk Sunday 
afternoons. He formed as good an opinion of 
her different girl friends as his conscience al- 
lowed, and talked to her about them. He tried 
to persuade her to tell him about music and har- 
mony. He used up five or six hours writing her 
a valentine. He made himself rather ridiculous 
in a hundred way s ; but as he was a person whom 
no one but Emily dared to laugh at, he expe- 
rienced very little ridicule. 

Devotion from such a person as Harold 
Vaughn was well worth having. Emily seemed 
to enjoy herself very much that winter. She ev- 

U7 



ANTAEUS 
idently felt that she had done her duty by Har- 
old in telling him that he had no chance. If he 
continued his advances, his blood was on his 
own head. He was so humble and deferential 
with her, and so utterly at her mercy, that she 
gradually became more haughty with him. That 
is inevitable in human intercourse. "There is 
one who kisses, and another who holds out the 
cheek." Emily might have met Harold halfway 
if he had not met her seven eights of the way. 
The winter had passed, and it was May before 
Harold tried his luck again. 

"It's almost a year since I asked you to marry 
me, Emily." 

Silence. 

"Haven'tyou changed your mind in that time, 
Emily? Isn't there any hope?" 

"Really, Harold, you annoy me very much. 
I thought I told you then that you would never 
have any chance." 

"But you might change your mind." 

"I never change my mind." 

"Perhaps you never have, but you will some 
time." 

Both were standing up and looking each other 
in the eye; and, as Harold finished and turned 
away from her, Emily felt for the first time in 
a year that possibly he had as strong a will as 
her own. 

Theplan of being a humble and devoted lover 
had failed. But difficulties never disconcerted 
Vaughn. When he was a boy at school, he had 
chosen a motto and written it under his name 
in all his books: "Failures are my stepping 
stones." Although he was disappointed, he was 
glad to get over the meaching lover business. It 



IN LOVE 

was not like his real self, and he always pre- 
ferred to act in character if possible. His next 
scheme was more exciting and more difficult. 
He determined to make Emily jealous. Of course 
it must be her sister Alice of whom she should 
be jealous. He thought he could manage it. There 
would be one unpleasant thing connected with 
the plan. He would not see nearly so much of 
Emily as the winter before ; in f act,he must avoid 
her.This inconvenience,however, would be tem- 
porary. He perfected the scheme in the summer, 
and when the Rogerses returned to Milton he 
was for the third time ready for action. He had 
rather neglected Alice the year before ; but it did 
not take him long to make up. She had always 
liked him, and now that he seemed to become 
so fond of her, she liked him better than ever. 
He renewed his attentions of the year before,but 
with a new object and in a lesser degree. He 
realized for the first time how much easier it is 
to study a girl's character when you are not in 
love with her. He came to know Alice through 
and through, — Alice, who was always consid- 
ered so inscrutable. He discovered that she had 
always been fond of attentions from men, but 
had concealed this feeling under the veil of in- 
difference. He found that she had high ambi- 
tions, — to become a great painter, a great singer, 
a great actress, — but that she concealed these 
aspirations even from her mother. He came to 
the conclusion that her heart must have been 
touched several times. 

Emily looked on his attentions to her sister 
with apparent pleasure. "Whether her pleasure 
was assumed or not, he could not tell. She spoke 
to him several times about how glad she was he 
had found out what a nice girl Alice was. Once 
or twice he thought her displeased when he left 



ANTAEUS 
a chair by her to go and sit down beside Alice. 
Of course there was a tremendous danger of 
overdoing the business. He must not make AHce 
think that he was in love with her; he must only 
make Emily think he was in love with Alice. He 
managed this with remarkable skill. His conver- 
sation to Alice was frank and brotherly, never 
romantic. He even remarked to her that he could 
not imagine their falling in love with each other. 
She understood perfectly well that he did not 
care for her in a loverlike way. Andyetto Emily 
they seemed devoted to each other. 

It was not till spring that Vaughn showed his 
true colors again. Then he veered round com- 
pletely. He was glad to do it, for he felt like an 
incorrigible hypocrite. Emily seemed surprised, 
but not displeased. About a week after the 
change, he made his third attack. 

"Have you changed your mind since last 
spring, Emily?" 

"About what?" 

"About marrying." 

"I thought you must have changed your own 
mind." 

"Emily! Were you sorry?" 

"No. I was very, very glad. But now I'm very 
sorry to see that you did not care for Alice, after 
all. I must say I think you've behaved shock- 
ingly! shockingly!" 

"No, I haven't. She never thought I was in 
love with her. By the way, Emily, are you in 
love with anyone else?" 

"I must say, Harold, you're very impolite to 
asksuchaquestion.Icertainlysha'n'tanswerit." 

"Oh, very well! Just as you like. You never 
seem to answer my questions as I want you to; 
but some day you'll think better of it." 

"Never!" 
J20 



IN LOVE 

Two days after his third rebuff, Vaughn started 
for Europe. Sometime before, he had announced 
to the other members of his firm that he should 
probably go abroad for a year, and all the nec- 
essary arrangements for his departure had been 
made, although if Emily's answer had been dif- 
ferent, of course he never would have gone. 
But now he had a mind to see what absence 
would do for him. Here he had been hanging 
about Emily for nearly three years, and she had 
become accustomed to him. If he went away, 
perhaps she would miss him. She could hardly 
fail to miss him a little ; and the little might grow 
so that before he came back she would miss him 
a great deal. He determined not to write to the 
Rogerses at all. Emily would miss him more if 
she had no news from him. He might be sick, 
or he might die, and these dreadful possibilities 
would befriend him. With any other girl than 
Emily he might have been afraid that some 
other suitor would appear and be engaged to 
her before his return. But he knew Emily well 
enough to be sure that it would take any man 
more than a year to win her affections. She had 
such a love of home and such a distrust of any- 
thing strange, that it was impossible for her to 
become engaged all of a sudden. Harold had cer- 
tainly adopted rather a Spartan method of win- 
ning her love. If she had missed him a tenth part 
as much as he missed her, she would have taken 
the first available steamer for Hamburg and the 
next train for Dresden. But he had been accus- 
tomed to be master of himself all his life; and 
though he wished himself in Milton on the aver- 
age about thirteen times in a day, he did not go 
there till he had been in Europe for over a year. 

It was a perfect June day when Harold walked 
up the Rogerses' avenue for the first time in 

J2J 



ANTAEUS 

thirteen months, and met Emily coming out of 
the house. The fountain was playing on the lawn. 
The sparrows and robins and catbirds were see- 
ing which could sing the happiest song; and 
Emily seemed as happy as they, as she ran down 
the steps and out on the avenue, holding out both 
hands to welcome him and saying, — 

"Oh, Harold ! I'm so glad you've come back !" 

"Are you really, Emily? And you're going to 
give me a little hope this time?" 

"Harold! haven't you got over talking like 
that? No indeed, not the least hope in the world! 
I was going to say ever so many nice things to 
you; and now I can't say any of them!" 

"I don't want you to say any nice things, ex- 
cept one." 

"Harold! Don't you think I know my own 
mind? I'm sure I'm old enough. Here you've 
been bothering me for years" — 

"Yes, and I'll keep on for fifty years more if 
necessary.You'dbettergive in, Emily. I've made 
up my mind." 

"Never!" 

It was now the summer of i88g. Harold had 
to all appearances been on a wild-goose chase 
for four years. Emily's last "never" had been 
as emphatic as her first. "Can it be possible," 
thought Harold, "that some of those other men 
stand in my way ?" He mentally reviewed them, 
and devoted himself to thinking up some mode 
of getting rid of them. That summer he was for 
the first time invited to spend a week with the 
Rogerses. He went down, but had an unsatis- 
factory visit. Emily seemed displeased with him, 
presumably on account of his never-ending per- 
severance. Alice had never liked him so well 
since he had been so devoted to her and had 
J22 



IN LOVE 

suddenly stopped. He confessed to himself that 
she had reason to be displeased with him. He 
was not at all sorry to pack up his bag and go 
back to Boston again. 

When the Rogers family came back to Mil- 
ton, he began to think seriously of his rivals. The 
first that drew his attention was Mr. Zimmer- 
man, a young lawyer, who used to talk to Emily 
about religion. He was conscientious to a fault. 
Harold once asked Emily why Mr. Zimmerman 
had not gone into the ministry. She replied that 
she thought good men were needed in all pro- 
fessions, especially in the law. She was irritated 
with Harold, and with reason, because of his 
treatment of her friends. He always seemed to 
be laughing at them, and worse than that, he 
made her want to laugh at them, too. As to poor 
Zimmerman, Harold took a mean advantage of 
his conscientiousness. They were calling on 
Emily together one evening, forming one of 
those painful "partis d trois" made up of a girl 
and two discordant admirers, where it is hard to 
tell which has the worst time of the three. At 
last Zimmerman had thesense to go ; and, much 
to Emily's surprise, Harold rose at the same 
time, and said he would go with him. They 
walked home to Boston together. Harold poured 
out to Zimmerman the whole story of his love. 
He made it very pathetic indeed, almost brought 
tears to the eyes of the soft-hearted young man, 
and persuaded him that it was a matter of life and 
death. Zimmerman,who was flutteringroundthe 
edge of falling in love, was terrified by this grand 
passion. He felt that he had no right to stand in 
Harold's way. His calls became less frequent. 
In the course of the year he fell in with a min- 
ister's daughter, who was ever so much more 
sympathetic in religious matters than Emily, 

J23 



ANTAEUS 
although not quite so pretty. They became en- 
gaged, and Vaughn was one of the ushers at the 
wedding. Mrs. Zimmerman never Hked Vaughn. 
She did not know how much she owed him. 

Mr. Van Deusen was a very different sort of 
a person from Mr. Zimmerman. He attacked 
Emily on her society side. His clothes were im- 
maculate, his manners perfect, his conceit un- 
matchable. He hated Vaughn the minute he saw 
him; but Vaughn did not hate him. Harold 
Vaughn was too much accustomed to making 
use of people to hate them. It was some time 
before he was able to get rid of Van Deusen, 
though it was mostly from lack of a good op- 
portunity. Finally the opportunity came. Harold 
was talking to Emily, and Van Deusen was sit- 
ting in the next room. Harold knew he was there, 
but Emily did not. Harold began to poke fun at 
him. Emily tried to stop him, but she could not 
help laughing. Harold continued. He ridiculed 
Van Deusen's white shoes and the creases in 
his trousers ; heimitated the poorman's affected 
pronunciation, his excessive politeness, his ut- 
terly commonplace opinions, and brought Emily 
into perfect gales of laughter. Then he asked 
Emily definitely for her opinion of Mr. Van Deu- 
sen. Mr. Van Deusen never called again. 

Mr. Butts was the most imposing looking of 
Miss Rogers' admirers. He was even taller than 
Harold, and had a fine classical profile. Harold, 
who went about like the arch fiend, trying to find 
every one's weak point, did not take long in find- 
ing Mr. Butts'. This gigantic Apollo was shy 
and modest. Harold, who was neither, took ad- 
vantage of his rival's lowliness of mind. He 
walked home with Butts as he had done with 
Zimmerman. For a second time he told the story 
of his passion, — but this time in a different way. 
J24 



H 



IN LOVE 

He dwelt on his determination of winning Em- 
ily. If necessary he was going to go there every 
day, so that no one else could see her alone. He 
intimated several times that he would not have 
been so frank with Butts if he had not been sure 
that Butts did not care for Miss Rogers "in that 
way, you know." He rather envied Butts in be- 
ing able to be satisfied with a Platonic friend- 
ship. As to those who were really rivals, they 
had better look out; that was all. He would not 
give them a minute's peace. And he was really 
sure that Miss Rogers would marry him some 
time. Butts muttered something about hoping 
that he would succeed, and was glad to get away 
from him. He never liked these violent men, any 
way. He called on Emily several times more, but 
Vaughn was always there in his most violent 
mood, and finally Butts gave it up. Like Zim- 
merman, he was not long in finding a more sym- 
pathetic girl than Emily, although in this case, 
too, she was not so handsome. 

But by far the most formidable of Vaughn's 
rivals was Mr. Acton. He was, unfortunately for 
Harold, a man with whom you could imagine 
Emily falling in love. He had a stern, overbear- 
ing disposition, which changed to an agreeable 
strength of character when he talked to Emily. 
Like Van Deusen, he hated Vaughn. Vaughn 
rather admired him. He was of the sort that help 
move the world ahead, — a man made for suc- 
cess. However, he should not succeed here. He 
was always ready to give and take offence. Har- 
old quarreled with him, taking care to have the 
right on his side, — an easy enough thing to do 
with such a man as Acton. Acton could not bear 
Vaughn in his sight, and yet had to see him al- 
most every time he came to the Rogerses. He 
was rude to Harold before Emily ; Harold, tem- 

J25 



\ 



ANTAEUS 

perate as he always was when he did not care 
to be angry. Emily begged Harold to make 
friends with Mr. Acton. Harold represented that 
it was all Mr. Acton's fault that they were not 
friends now. Emily began to dread Mr. Acton's 
calls. Acton began to dread them too. He always 
saw "that conceited jackass Vaughn" at the 
Rogerses. That conceited j ackass Vaughn made 
a point of being at the Rogerses as much as pos- 
sible. Finally a more violent outbreak of bad 
manners than usual on the part of Mr. Acton 
brought down a few very decisive words of well- 
merited reproof from Miss Rogers. Mr. Acton 
went off in a huff, and, like Mr. Van Deusen, 
never called again. 

Harold had won the field against odds, like 
Napoleon, and, like Napoleon, had descended 
to methods of which he ought to have been 
ashamed; and to give him his due, he was a lit- 
tle ashamed. One result of his last campaign was 
that the Rogerses had very few callers that year. 

"Emily, don't you ever intend to marry?" 

"Not till I fall in love." 

"Well, I don't see much of any one good 
enough for Your Royal Highness to fall in love 
with. If I did I should have it out with him." 

"I think you've been acting rather the part of 
a scarecrow, Harold, — or of a dog in the man- 
ger." 

"A scarecrow, yes. As to the dog, that remains 
to be seen. No one would have found fault with 
the dog, if he had eaten the hay himself. I am 
sure I am very ready to eat the hay, if it will 
only let itself be eaten. But it won't." 

"No," said Emily, "it won't." 

The next summer and the following autumn 
J 26 



IN LOVE 

Emily Rogers spent abroad, traveling with 
friends. Before she went, Vaughn had obtained 
leave to correspond with her. If Emily supposed 
that Harold was going to wait till he received 
an answer to his last letter before he wrote again, 
she was much mistaken. He wrote regularly 
every two days. He anticipated good results 
from this correspondence, and he laid himself 
out to write as well as he could. Emily did not 
answer all his letters, but she did not seem to 
be displeased with their frequency. Travelers 
are always glad to hear from home. 

Harold's letters were long ones. They con- 
tained all the news he could gather about people 
that Emily kne w,a considerable amount of spec- 
ulation on philosophy and politics, as a compli- 
ment to her mental ability, and a great deal of 
half-disguised devotion. Vaughn was proud of 
his letters, and with reason. They were the kind 
that a girl traveling abroad likes to receive. Har- 
old called frequently at the Rogerses, and sent 
Emily minute descriptions of what happened 
during these visits. He cultivated the acquaint- 
ance of a number of society men, and kept up 
with current gossip so well that he was almost 
always able to send Emily the news of an en- 
gagement before her friends of her own sex. He 
described in an entertaining way any exciting 
or humorous adventures that he met with. He 
went out to Cambridge several times, and sent 
her an account of how John was getting on at 
college,andthe kind of so-called men with whom 
he was intimate. Of course Emily was glad to 
get letters from her own family; but in point of 
length, interest, news, and frequency, the united 
efforts of her family were nothing to Harold's. 
Emily's letters to Harold were brief descrip- 
tions of what she saw in Europe. He valued them 

J27 



ANTAEUS 

highly because they were from her ; if they had 
been from anyone else, he would probably have 
rated them as commonplace. She came home in 
December. 

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Harold! Your 
letters were perfectly splendid !" 

"They weren't half as nice as yours." 

"Harold, I thought you always spoke the 
truth!" 

"I don't want to be always boringyou, Emily, 
but haven't you changed your mind?" 

"No. I don't think you quite understand my 
character, Harold. I'm not the kind of girl to 
change my mind." 

"Emily ! Do you think I've studied your char- 
acter for six years and don't know it better than 
you do?" 

"Certainly I do." 

"Then you're mistaken, Emily. Since you've 
been away I've learned something about your 
character that I never knew before, and that you 
don't know yourself." 

What Harold had learnt about Emily was 
that she was his inferior in most things, espe- 
cially in intellect and strength of character. She 
had a good mind and a strong character, but in 
both respects she was as nothing compared to 
Harold; and yet he had been making love to 
her for more than five years without ever as- 
serting his superiority. He had treated her as a 
being nobler and wiser than himself for so long 
that it was no wonder that she had grown to 
think she really was so. At last, he did not 
know how, he saw her as she was. Her nature 
was deep but not broad. Her mind was quick, 
but not capable of grappling with the largest 
128 



IN LOVE 

problems. Her soul was noble, but it lacked sym- 
pathy. And, though she tried hard to be humble 
minded, she had at the bottom of her heart a 
higher opinion of herself than she deserved. She 
was distinctly his inferior. Yet,strangely enough, 
though he recognized this fact, he loved her 
none the less. He was used to loving her, and 
he could not help it. He was very angry with 
himself for all the foolish schemes he had tried 
with so little success. If he had only asserted 
himself like a man from the first, very likely he 
wouldhave had notrouble. He looked back with 
an ashamed wonder at the meannesses to which 
he had descended to rid himself of rivals. He re- 
membered with anger the time when he had 
acted the part of the cringing lover. At last he 
saw his true position. In future he would at least 
behave to Emily like a man, not like a suppliant 
fool or a crafty schemer. She should see that she 
had a very different person to deal with from 
the one whom she had refused six times. He 
would take his proper place. He would bow to 
her no longer. Where their opinions clashed, 
she should give way to his, or else recognize 
that she was silly for not doing so. He would 
bother no more with her arbitrary father, her 
foolish mother. They might like him or not, as 
they chose; in future he would act himself. In 
future Emily should recognize a superior, — 
something she had never done before. He had 
bowed before her too long; he would never bow 
again. 

Emily had an awakening the next time Har- 
old came to see her. The call was one long bat- 
tle from beginning to end. Harold advanced 
some of his opinions. Emily contradicted them. 
Much to her surprise, he argued the point. She 
would not give in. Then Harold, who was not 

J 29 



ANTAEUS 
a lawyer for nothing, showed her, in a perfectly 
polite way, that she must be a perfect fool to 
hold such ideas. Still she would not yield, though 
in her inmost soul she saw that she was beaten. 
It was a stormy interview, and the precursor of 
others still stormier ; but Vaughn did not mind 
that. He always chose his ground well ; he had 
a much more powerful mind than Emily, and 
talked far better than she ; and in this argumen- 
tative stage of his love making, like Cromwell's 
Ironsides, he was "never beaten at all." Emily 
came to be afraid of him. She began to get into 
the habit of yielding to him, — she who never 
yielded to any one, not even to her father. 
Vaughn showed his regard for her by coming 
to see her pretty frequently, but he never bowed 
the knee to her now. He never paid her compli- 
ments, and often pointed out her failings. She 
did not dare to tell him his. Like a successful 
general, he took her dreadful batteries and 
turned them against herself. For five years she 
had contradicted him with impunity; but now 
Vaughn out-Heroded Herod. She had always 
assumed a vague superiority when talking to 
him ; now he assumed it. She had been accus- 
tomed to chide him for coming to see her so of- 
ten; now he would come every other night for 
two weeks and then stay away for a month at 
a time, and poor Emily did not open her lips to 
rebuke him. 

Two years went by. Harold was always ad- 
vancing, Emily retreating. Sometimes her old 
queenly spirit would come out in some flashing 
sarcasm ; but, like the charges of the French at 
Sedan, these attacks only served to show the 
enemy's strength. She had other admirers, but 
they were insignificant beside Vaughn. He al- 
ways gave them a fair chance now. He was per- 
J30 



IN LOVE 

f ectly confident that none of them could win her. 
Emily ruled them with a rod of iron; but what 
pleasure is there in being a queen, when your 
fairest province has asserted its independence, 
and is marching in full force against the capital? 

It was in February, 1893, that Harold stormed 
the capital. The next day he was to go West on 
business for six months. He went out to Milton 
ostensibly to say good-bye. Considering what 
old friends he and Emily were, his good-bye was 
a very cold one. He scarcely alluded to his jour- 
ney till he rose to go. 

"Well, I'm off to Chicago and Colorado to- 
morrow,'* he said. "I shall probably be in Den- 
ver for six months, I hope rather more. Won't 
it be fun to get a taste of life in the W^est ?" 

"I hope you'll like it." 

"We wrote to each other famously while you 
were in Europe," Vaughn went on. "I must have 
bored you like anything with those reams of 
paper. But I guess we'd better not write this 
time. I hardly think it pays for a man and a girl 
to write to each other when — well, when they 
don't mean anything, you know." 

Emily's eyes glistened a little. She bit her lip. 

"Perhaps we'd better not, then," she said. 

"After all, you know, it would be a sort of bore 
for both of us," said Vaughn. "Well, good-bye, 
Emily." 

"Good-bye," said Emily, and bit her lip again. 

Harold left the room, leaving his cane in the 
corner. He left it there on purpose. He went 
down-stairs, and, when he reached the front 
door, turned round and went up-stairs again, 
and into the room where he had left Emily. She 
was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, crying 
like a child. He went up to her and put his arms 

round her. 

J3J 



"What a fool I've been, Harold!" 

"I should like to hear any one else call you 
that!" 

"To make you ask me to marry you seven 
times ! But you haven't asked me yet this time, 
so I'm going to humble myself. Harold, will you 
marry me?" 

"Emily!" 

"The idea! And we might have been married 
seven years ago!" 

Harold laughed. "Well, I'm glad we weren't," 
he said. "We should be elderly married folks 
now if we had, and now we're both of us young. 
By the way, Emily, I'm going to put off that 
Western trip for about a month." 

Emily blushed. There was a pause. 

"How soon are you going out West, Emily ?" 

"In about a month," 



THE CHASE 



Duty! Duty!! Look behind thee! 

I am spent and out of breath. 
But by Heaven I will find thee 

Were it at the gates of Death ! 

Happy they who heard thee calling, 
Calling from the cannon's mouth 

When the brave old boys were falling 
With their faces to the south ! 

Happy he who through the curtain 

Of the battle saw thy fair 
Beckoning form where death was certain, 

Laughed and ran to find thee there! 

Whither art thou disappearing ? 

I can laugh at danger, too, 
Reckless, hopeless, persevering: 

Only tell me what to do 1 

Shall I with my heart on fire 
Teach this sad world Sorrow's cure? 

Help the poor to grope up higher? 
I, the poorest of the poor! 

Shall I gasp my life out, lying 
Stretched in torment on the snow, 

Grimly bearing, fiercely sighing? 
Ah for God's sake bid me go ! 



Hearing nothing, nothing caring, 

Off she flies, unreconciled ; 
And I follow, half despairing, 

Half in anger, like a child, 

Some poor child with grief unspoken 
Left behind — Where can they be ? — 

Stumbling on, in tears, heart-broken : 
^'Mother!— Mother!!— Wait for me!" 



A MIDDLE-AGED 
WOMAN 



A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN 






Mr. Swan was reading the "Evening Tran- 
script." His wife was finishing a ''concluded" 
story in a magazine. Their two daughters were 
busy at the other end of the room. Gladys was 
answering an invitation, and Alison was knit- 
ting her brows over Kidd's "Social Evolution." 
The door bell rang, and they all looked up. 

"Is Mr. Swan at home?" inquired a voice. 
The utterance was rapid, but distinct. 

"Yes, sir." 

There was a moment's pause. Then the same 
voice could be heard again. "No ; don't take me 
upstairs. Is Mr. Swan in here with the family?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Well, I would rather see them all together. 
Kindly give Mr. and Mrs. Swan my card." 

The family curiosity was excited, and Gladys 
did not run away, as she usually did when gen- 
eral visitors appeared. The servant brought in 
a card, and handed it to Mr. Swan. "Clinton 
Hathaway" was engraved on it, without any 
"Mr." 

"Show him right in. Flora," Mr. Swan said. 

Eight staring eyes were aimed at the doorway, 
and covered Mr. Hathaway the moment he en- 
tered. Mr. Clinton Hathaway was tall and very 
thin. His hair was light, and he wore spectacles, 
near-sighted ones, as you could see by the way 
he carried his head. He shook hands with Mr, 
Swan, who had risen to greet him. 

"I took the liberty of asking to be shown in 
here because my business had to do with your 

135 



A MIDDLE- 
family as well as yourself," the stranger said, 
speaking without the least embarrassment and 
making a comprehensive bow. "I want to get 
you all to sign this petition." Here he took a long 
roll of paper from his pocket. "It is a petition 
askingthat the Public Library with its branches 
may be kept open on holiday s. Will you sign it ?" 

He looked about eagerly. The Swan family 
was puzzled and a little displeased at this strange 
person who had broken in upon them without 
an introduction. Mr. Swan took the petition and 
read it aloud. It was concise and well expressed. 
He noticed that it had already been signed by 
at least one member of every household on New- 
borough Street from number one up to number 
seventy-six. The Swans lived at seventy-seven. 

"I see you've been quite successful in our 
neighborhood," said Mr. Swan, looking over 
his eye-glasses at the young man. 

"Yes. I mean to get a signature from every 
house on the street." 

The calm self-confidence with which the 
stranger spoke jarred on Mr. Swan. He gave 
back the paper. "No, Mr. Hathaway; I cannot 
conscientiously sign that petition," he said, with 
an emphasis that indicated a final decision. 

Hathaway's eyes shone. He scented a strug- 
gle, and was evidently glad to feel it coming. 
"Why not?" he asked; and the two words 
sounded like successive revolver shots. 

"Because the library employes need holidays 
as much as the rest of us," Mr. Swan replied, 
taking off his glasses and looking the stranger 
in the eye. 

Hathaway made a deprecating gesture with 
his hand. "The library employes!" he said scorn- 
fully. "What do the handful of library employes 
amount to when compared with the whole pop- 
J36 



AGED WOMAN 

ulation of the city of Boston ? Nothing, sir ! Take 
QM^diy a privilege from half a million persons in 
order to give one to a couple of dozen! You 
might as well close all the churches on Sunday, 
on the ground that the ministers have worked 
hard all the week and need a rest as much as 
other people. But you'll say Sundays are just 
the days when the churches ought to be open. 
Exactly; and holidays are the days of all days 
when the libraries ought to be open." 

As Mr. Swan could think of no other answer, 
he coughed. Such a manoeuvre, however, could 
hardly be considered a permanent reply. There 
was a moment of silence. Hathaway eyed his 
audience with the same expression which Hora- 
tius may be presumed to have worn when he 
defended the bridge. "There's for one Etruscan ! 
Would any one else like to try his hand?" 

Alison took up a pen, crossed the room, signed 
the petition, and went back to her seat. 

Hathaway did not thank her. He merely held 
up the paper so that his near-sighted eyes could 
read the new signature, folded up the document, 
put it in his pocket, bade the Swans good night, 
and withdrew. 

Gladys Swan was considered by her admirers 
as "rather a remarkable girl." W^hen those who 
held this opinion were asked what there was re- 
markable about her, their answers were unsat- 
isfactory. Her older sister Alison maintained 
that the only remarkable thing about Gladys was 
her remarkable laziness. From the time when 
she was twelve till the time when she was twen- 
ty-four, Alison had tried hard to make her read ; 
and in these twelve years Gladys had read sev- 
enteen books. Of these she selected "Sartor Re- 
sartus" as her favorite. "It's like some people," 

J37 



A MIDDLE- 

she would say. "I didn't care much for it when 
I read it, but since then it grows on me." How- 
ever this may have been, she never gave her- 
self the treat of reading it a second time. One 
advantage at least she derived from her laziness; 
her constant antipathy to unnecessary exertion 
had made her every movement graceful. She 
was at her best in a ball room, where her per- 
fect taste in clothes, her pretty face, her elegant 
carriage, and her vague reputation for remark- 
ableness attracted perhaps five times as many 
young men as would have been allotted to her 
at a socialistic dancing party. One of these gen- 
tlemen, a certain Mr. E. Bacon Bacon, had the 
good fortune to affect her like "Sartor Resar- 
tus." She did not care for him much at first, but 
afterward he grew upon her. At the time of 
ClintonHathaway'sunexpected visit, Mr.Bacon 
and Miss Gladys Swan were engaged. 

A few days after the episode of the library 
petition, Mr. Bacon was waiting on the Swans' 
front doorstep for the servant to answer the bell, 
when he was startled by a long-legged appari- 
tion which came boundingup the stepstwo stairs 
at a time. 

"Mr. Bacon, isn't it ?"the new-comer inquired 
cheerfully. "You and I are bound for the same 
port." 

Bacon looked at him coldly and said nothing. 

The stranger laughed. "Well done!" he said. 
"You'rea regular Bostonian, aren't you? — stony 
British stare and all!" Then turning to the ser- 
vant, who opened the door at this juncture: 
"Tell Miss Alison Swan that Clinton Hathaway 
wants to see her." 

Both young men were shown into the draw- 
ing room. Hathaway instantly buried himself 
in an arm-chair and began to read a book of 
J 38 



AGED WOMAN 

poetry. Bacon stood in the middle of the room, 
alternately looking at the pictures and scowling 
at Hathaway. 

In a few minutes Alison came in. "How do 
you do, Mr. Hathaway?" she said, advancing 
cordially and shaking hands. "Have you met 
Mr. Bacon?" 

Hathaway looked over his shoulder at Bacon 
and smiled. "Well, I don't exactly know how to 
answer your question," he said. "I've met him, 
but he hasn't met me." 

Bacon scowled again, said he was very glad 
to meet Mr. Hathaway, asked after Gladys, who 
was down with the measles, and took his de- 
parture. 

"That man's a fool," Hathaway observed, 
"and I'm glad he's gone. W^hat I came for was 
this. Miss Swan. I've been reading your article 
on Woman Suffrage in the *Rostrum.' I like the 
spirit of it, but I want to point out a lot of mis- 
takes. What on earth did you talk about George 
Eliot and Rosa Bonheur and Mrs. Julia Ward 
Howe for? That kind of thing is played out. 
You'd have done much better to talk about your 
own mother or mine. You've got ten times as 
much right to vote as that silly little E. Bacon 
Bacon who was just here; that's a point for 
woman suffrage. But Rosa Bonheur has noth- 
ing to do with the matter." 

An ordinary young woman would have been 
upset by such a speech from a perfect stranger. 
Alison was delighted with its frankness. She 
thought a moment. 

"Yes, I think you're right," she said slowly. 
"I was carried away by my desire to bring up 
examples of really great women. What else did 
you notice, Mr. Hathaway? You must know 
that I'm a very intimate friend of yours. Your 
'Ideal World' is one of my bibles." 

J39 



A MIDDLE- 

An hour later, when Mary came into announce 
dinner, they were still talking. Alison asked 
Hathaway to stay to dinner, and he did so, much 
to the chagrin of Mr. Swan, who preferred to 
drink his claret without lectures on total absti- 
nence. 

After that Hathaway called on Alison very 
often. She was carried away with him, and could 
think of no greater pleasure than to have him 
find fault with her. Gladys could not bear him. 
Her knowledge on all sorts of topics was of the 
delightfully indefinite variety, the kind that has 
to be taken for granted. Hathaway took nothing 
for granted; and once he made fun of her igno- 
rance so openly that Mr. Bacon, according to 
a subsequent declaration, "almost felt like doing 
something." Mr. Swan, after having been badly 
routed in two or three arguments with Hatha- 
way, changed his tactics, and always read his 
newspaper when the young man was about. 

"I know him," he said to his wife. "I've seen 
that sort of man before. If he'd lived before the 
war, he'd have been an abolitionist. Now he 
can't be that, so he makes up by being a woman- 
suffragist, socialist, land-taxite. Christian scien- 
tist,and probably a vegetarian and free-thinker." 

Inspiteofthis condemnation, Mrs. Swan could 
not help feeling a sense of fascination when the 
young man was about. She had a vague feeling 
that she would obey him if he told her to do any- 
thing. She was the only one of the family con- 
nection who was not disgusted when Alison an- 
nounced that Mr. Clinton Hathaway and she 
were engaged. 

Mr. Swan had always preferred Gladys to 

Alison. Gladys was healthy in her tastes, he 

would say. When she asked him for money, it 

was always for a bonnet, a dress, a theatre party, 

J40 



AGED WOMAN 

or something sensible; Alison wanted it for the 
Associated Charities or to help '"causes." He 
could give Gladys satisfactory little talks about 
being extravagant, and thus preserve the dig- 
nity of a father; Alison was so hopelessly vir- 
tuous and self-restrained that there was no bear- 
ing her. Extreme virtue in an individual is a tacit 
reproach to that individual's family; — at least, 
so Mr. Swan considered it. When Alison told 
him of her engagement, he forgot himself so far 
as to say that Hathaway was "not exactly a 
perfect gentleman, my dear." 

Alison was exasperating enough not to lose 
her temper. "I know he isn't," she said quietly. 
"Clinton made up his mind some time ago that 
he'd rather be a man than a gentleman." 

Mr. Swan looked at her for a moment to see 
if she was really his daughter, and then left the 
room. He was afraid, as he afterward acknowl- 
edged to his wife, that she was going on to say 
that her fiance had decided to become a Mus- 
sulman. "Why couldn't she have chosen a sen- 
sible man, as her sister did .^" the unhappy father 
exclaimed, pacing up and down the room an- 
grily. "Bacon's conceited and a snob; but give 
him a cigar and an arm-chair, and at least he 
can keep his mouth shut. This Hathaway man 
won't even smoke!" 

Mrs. Swan, although she listened sympathet- 
ically to this tirade, sympathized with Alison, 
too. In fact she infinitely preferred Hathaway 
to her other future son-in-law, whose single 
accomplishment of smoking was not, in her 
opinion, of sufficient importance to make up for 
his numerous shortcomings. She told Alison 
that she heartily approved the engagement, and 
that she hoped Mr. Hathaway would be her 
friend as well as her son-in-law. Alison, who was 

Hi 



A MIDDLE- 

not accustomed to receiving sympathy, broke 
down under this unexpected kindness; and for 
once the two had agood cry together. Alison con- 
fided to her mother some of Clinton's schemes 
for reforming Boston; and Mrs. Swan was so 
much enchanted with them that she described 
them to her husband with many unconscious 
modifications. Mr. Swan, who was trying to go 
to sleep at the time, replied with amingled growl 
and interjection, to which he often had recourse 
when displeased. His wife, however hard she 
might listen,could never quite make out whether 
it was merely a grunt, or was intended for a de- 
liberate imprecation. 

Mrs. Swan was a stout, middle-aged woman ; 
and she looked so like other stout, middle-aged 
women that you felt, when you first met her, 
that there would not be the smallest chance of 
your recognizing her when you met her again. 
She was a woman after her husband' s ownheart, 
for there was nothing peculiar — some said noth- 
ing interesting — about her. Her occupations, so 
far as she had any, had always been strictly fem- 
inine, and such as her conservative husband ap- 
proved. She had taught a Sunday-school class 
for the first three years of her married life, and 
had given it up only when the cares incident to 
the bringing up of her children had proved too 
muchf or work of any otherkind.Sinceher daugh- 
ters had graduated from her supervision,she had 
looked about for some suitable occupation to 
takethe place of her exertions in educating them. 
She had joined a magazine club, which sub- 
scribed to all the magazines and sent them about 
from member to member. She was now think- 
ing of belonging to a reading club also ; but it is 
a serious thing for a busy woman to give up one 
afternoon a week to reading, and she hesitated. 
t42 



AGED WOMAN 

For busy she certainly was,though she had noth- 
ing to do. *'What with my housekeeping and 
shopping in the morning, and my social duties 
in the afternoon, my day's pretty well taken up 
without anything else, ' ' she once said to her hus- 
band. *'And very well taken up, too," was Mr. 
Swan's reply. 

Mrs. Swan never had shared her husband's 
feelings toward Alison ; on the other hand, with 
a mother's instinct, she had early perceived that 
Alison was going to be queer and unpopular,and 
had tried to make up for it by being especially 
considerate and affectionate to her older daugh- 
ter. Alison repelled advances, but Mrs. Swan 
managed to do a great deal for her. It was owing 
to her influence that Mr. Swan was finally in- 
duced to let Alison go to Smith College, whence, 
according to him, she returned "with a pair of 
glasses on her nose,and crazy as a March hare." 
Mrs. Swan was very much afraid of Alison, and 
treated her with a great deal of respect, except 
in one particular. In the matter of clothes Ali- 
son was a child in her hands. Mrs. Swan se- 
lected everything that her intellectual daughter 
wore, and even compelled Alison to stand for 
hours while Madame Kellie tried on waists, 
sacques, and overskirts ; or to wait in torture at 
a store while her mother matched a piece of 
mauve ribbon. The result was that Alison, in- 
stead of looking like a woman who tried to dress 
badly, looked like a woman who tried to dress 
well. 

Partly as a soyt of payment for these services, 
and partly because she had no one else to con- 
fide in, Alison often made her mother a depos- 
itary of her charitable schemes and her aspira- 
tions for self-improvement.Her mother listened 
as sympathetically as she listened to her hus- 

143 



AMIDDLE- 

band when he condemned the higher education 
of women. ^A^hen Alison became engaged, these 
confidential interviews with her mother ceased ; 
but instead Mrs. Swan was allowed to be present 
when Alison and Clinton discussedthe reforma- 
tion of the world and how it should be brought 
about. For Clinton and Alison were not one of 
theengagedcouples who insist uponbeingalone. 
You did not have to scuff your feet or sing a 
song when you were approaching the room 
wheretheyweretalkingjin order thatthey might 
have time to withdraw to a respectable distance 
from each other. Clinton was seldom demon- 
strative, and, when he was, the presence of a 
third person had no effect whatever upon him. 
If he chanced to be sitting with his arm round 
Alison when the Queen of England came in, he 
would not have withdrawn it, unless, it might 
be, to add the force of gesticulation to his de- 
nunciation of hereditary monarchy. But, as a 
matter of fact, very few demonstrations of af- 
fection passed between the lovers. They loved 
each other with their heads, as it were. Clinton 
was in love with Alison's mind, and gave just 
about as much thought to her physical attrac- 
tions as he did to his own clothes. 

Mrs. Swan liked to be present at their discus- 
sions. She listened in an entirely impersonal way, 
nodding approval occasionally when Clinton 
laid down the law. It never entered her headthat 
she herself could ever have anything to do with 
such matters; but when she was with the two 
anarchists, as Mr. Swan called them, she heartily 
agreed with alltheirplans. If whatthey said was 
true, it was the duty of every grown person in 
the state to join in and work with them ; and this 
doctrine, which they were continually laying 
down, Mrs. Swan came to accept as a common- 
J44 



AGED WOMAN 

place. The idea that she should help them did 
not occur to her, — nor, for a long time, to them. 

But it happened one day that Clinton, who 
was drawing a vivid picture of the contemptible 
sort of woman that centuries of female slavery 
had brought about, suddenly fixed his eyes on 
Mrs. Swan, and realized that she was exactly 
the kind of person that he was talking about. 
Most men would have been embarrassed at such 
a discovery ; Clinton was delighted. No thought 
of politeness to a hostess, chivalry to a woman, 
respect for an elder, or deference to Alison's 
mother stopped him for a moment. Not because 
he pitied her did he pause before attacking her, 
but only becausehe was intoxicated by the easily 
seized joy that lay within his grasp. He waited 
as a lion might crouch a moment longer than 
necessary before leaping on some particularly 
toothsome prey. He eyed Mrs. Swan, who was 
placidly knitting, as if she had been a serpent. 
She had suddenly become to him not a woman, 
butthe representative of a class — a futile, feeble- 
minded, idle class that cumbered the world. Ali- 
son was weak enough to pity her unconscious 
mother; buttherewas that inClinton's eye which 
forbade her to interfere. There was a pause for 
a moment while Mrs. Swan knitted on, as un- 
conscious as Pompeii the day before its burial. 
When she finished her row, she looked up to 
see why no one spoke. Then it was that Hath- 
away at last broke the silence. 

"The middle-aged married woman is the fail- 
ure of modern civilization ! " he exclaimed, rising 
and pacing up and down the room. "She is an 
anomaly, — athingforwhichnousecanbefound. 
She alone of all the men and women in the world 
is utterly, deplorably, and persistently idle ! The 
boy studies ; the girl studies ; the man works ; 

H5 



A MIDDLE- 

single women work; young married women 
work ; but she — at most she makes a call on 
some one even idler than herself!" Clinton 
brought outtheselast words with a savage sneer 
which made poor Mrs. Swan take out her hand- 
kerchief. "And is she ashamed of herself?" he 
continued, without stopping to notice his adver- 
sary's demoralization. "Does she cringe about, 
conscious of the fact that she alone of God's 
creatures has never earned the right to walk the 
earth? I askyou, does she?" he repeated, stamp- 
ing his foot on the ground. 

The only answer Mrs. Swan gave to this ques- 
tion was a little sob. Alison could not help reach- 
ing out and taking her hand. Clinton did not heed 
them. "Cringe ? not a bit of it !" he went on, walk- 
ing the room again. "She swells up and down 
the street" — here he endeavored without much 
success to imitate the lady whom he was de- 
scribing — "as if she would say: 'Look at me! 
Just think of the children I've brought into the 
world!' As if the world wasn't over-populated 
already! How does such a woman occupy her- 
self? Perhaps half an hour is given to house- 
keeping, or more probably she assigns that duty 
to her children. The rest of the day she eats, 
drinks, sleeps, and talks. So long as she had 
children to spoil and make as bad as herself, 
she at least had that excuse for existence; but 
when they are grown up, she merely looks at 
her husband working, while she grows fat! Why 
doesn't she work? 'I haven't got time,' she says. 
Time! Why, that's all she has got! What does 
she do in the course of the day? All the morn- 
ing she goes shopping — she might accomplish 
the same business with three postal cards in five 
minutes ; in the afternoon she pays visits ; in the 
evening she reads a magazine." Here he sud- 
H6 



AGED WOMAN 

denly stopped in front of his victim. "I appeal 
to you, Mrs. Swan," he said. "Is not that the way 
you spend your time?" 

Mrs. Swan nodded desperately, holding her 
handkerchief to her eyes. He had described her 
day exactly. 

"I thank you," Clinton said, suddenly becom- 
ing more dignified. "I thank you for admitting 
the deplorable truth." Then, growing warm 
again : "I tell you, if the socialists had their way 
— and some day they will — such creatures would 
be swept off the face of the earth!" 

He stopped. Mrs. Swan dried her eyes and 
gradually became calmer. At last she was able 
to trust her voice. 

"What ought I to do?" she asked timidly. 

Clinton's face became transfigured. His voice 
shook with emotion. "What !" he cried joyfully. 
"Have I converted you? Are you willing to do 
your part? Oh, I can't tell you how happy I am ! 
Work! That is all. Work at anything, no mat- 
ter what. Don't stand idle all the day. Teach, 
learn, type-write, write shorthand, lecture, 
preach, anything and everything. Oh, Alison, I 
was never so happy m my life!" 

When Clinton had gone, Mrs. Swan discussed 
with Alison what she had better do. She felt 
rather like a man who has "got religion" and 
doesn't quite know what to do with it. 

' ' Lecturing and preaching are splendid things, 
of course," she said, "but I'm afraid I should 
never get quite accustomed to standing alone 
on a platform. I think perhaps I might learn to 
do typewriting." 

Alison hesitated. She knew her mother better 
than Hathaway did, and could not imagine her 
doing work of any kind. However, she did not 
want to spoil Clinton's conversion. 

W7 



A MIDDLE- 

"Yes, that would be splendid," she said, try- 
ing to be enthusiastic. "Papa'll buy you a type- 
writer, I'm sure." 

The mention of her husband made Mrs. Swan 
feel uncomfortable. She was in the position of 
a boy of fifteen who has decided to go to the 
war, but has not yet gone through the formality 
of telling his father. When she left her daughter, 
her enthusiasm had diminished perceptibly. 
That evening, as her husband sat just across the 
tablereadinghis "Transcript,"she eyed him over 
her magazine, waiting with a beating heart for 
the right moment to accost him. At last he put 
down the paper and yawned. Her time had come. 

"John, I don't think I've had quite enough to 
do lately," she said, beginning, as a woman is 
apt to do, at some distance from the subject she 
intended ultimately to arrive at. 

Mr. Swan looked up surprised. "Why, Car- 
rie," he said, "you told me only yesterday that 
you had to make three calls every day to keep 
your list from mounting up. It seems to me 
you've been busier than usual." He smiled, but 
she did not smile back. 

"I've been thinking that I ought — I mean that 
I want to do something — to have some regular 
occupation. Would you object if I took up — 
well, say typewriting?" 

Mr. Swan stared. "What on earth's got into 
you, Carrie?" he asked in astonishment. 

"Oh, nothing, dear, nothing," Mrs. Swan said, 
looking round the room nervously. "Of course 
if you object — " 

"Object? Why, Carrie, what an idea! You 
shall have a typewriter to-morrow if you really 
want it ; but what put such a notion into your 
head?" 

Mrs. Swan blushed and began to read her 

J48 



AGED WOMAN 

magazine. Her husband laughed, took up his 
paper, and started on a new column, glancing 
across the table from time to time. She felt his 
eyes, and colored, partly from embarrassment 
and partly from pleasure at having gained her 
point. John was such a good husband! 

The next day the typewriter arrived. Mrs. 
Swan, though she was delighted with her hus- 
band's present, could make nothing of it alone, 
and was obliged to send to the place it came 
from for a man to come and teach her. That man 
had a hard time of it. It was not that Mrs. Swan 
was stupid; she was commonplace, not deficient 
in her abilities. But she was not accustomed to 
learning anything, and she always had had a 
horror of having the principle of any machine 
explained to her. Her instructor had the good 
sense to see that his three successive careful 
elucidations of the principle of the typewriter 
made no impression, and he finally contented 
himself with showing her how, if she pressed 
such and such a place, such and such a thing 
would happen. This suited her better. It was the 
way she had learned the sewing machine thirty 
years before. 

"And if anything goes wrong, or I forget any- 
thing, I can send for you," she said, as the man 
stood mopping his brow before taking his de- 
parture. 

"I guess you'd better send for my son Ru- 
dolph," the man said, without giving his reasons 
for this suggestion. Rudolph was sent for the 
next day. 

The habit of idleness is very much like other 
habits which get the upper hand of people, like 
smoking, drinking, or opium eating, for instance ; 
but it has one important difference. The re- 
formed drunkard or opium eater is safe so long 

J49 



A MIDDLE- 

as he sits still and does nothing; the reformed 
idler must be continually exerting himself in 
order to escape his favorite vice. But it is not 
good fun to exert yourself. The moderator at a 
public meeting soon learns that if he wants a 
motion to be lost, he had better say that those 
in favor of it shall stand up, and those opposed 
shall remain sitting down. The average man 
has a marked tendency toward repose.The aver- 
age middle-aged woman has even more ; and 
Mrs. Swan wasan average middle-aged woman. 

Alison was amazed, however, to see how hard 
her mother worked. Mrs. Swan gave up three 
hours a day to her typewriter ; and at the end 
of a month she could write twenty-five words 
a minute. Forty was what she was aiming at. 
Clinton had promised her all his lectures to copy 
for him as soon as she reached that point ; and 
she meant to get some work from her husband, 
too. During the second month she worked on, 
but there was a difference in the way she worked. 
The machine had lost its fascination; and she 
no longer plied it eagerly as at first, but like a 
slave. One day, when Clinton and Alison were 
safe in Fall River, she stole away after an hour's 
work and finished the afternoon at the Dexters' 
afternoon tea. 

At last there came a day when Mrs. Swan 
timed herself and found she had written forty- 
five words in a minute. She tried again : forty- 
seven. Once more : this time, in spite of several 
long words, it was forty-four. She sat back in 
her chair and looked gloomily out of the window. 
It was raining, and the darkness of the afternoon 
and the noise of the water running down the 
water spouts acted unpleasantly on her feelings. 
This ought to have been a moment of triumph, 
— and here she was feeling anything but tri- 
150 



AGED WOMAN 

umphant. Why is it that we look back on suc- 
cess as a matter of course? We never should 
achieve it if we felt that way beforehand. Mrs. 
Swan thought with horror of the long hours of 
work which the future had in store for her. "And 
what good does it do ?" she said aloud. Her back 
felt tired; her eyes were heavy. She rose and 
stood at the window listlessly, watching the 
waterproofed women shuffling along the glis- 
tening sidewalks. She could hear Alison's step 
coming along the hallway and into the room. 

"I can write forty words a minute now, Ali- 
son," she said, without looking round. 

"You don't mean it!" Alison exclaimed."How 
splendid! Well, Clinton's got his essay on 'Im- 
provement and Perfection' all ready for you.Oh, 
mamma, isn't it fine to work?" 

"Yes," said Mrs. Swan absently, — and then 
wondered what had made her tell such a delib- 
erate lie. 

When Mr. Swan went upstairs to bed that 
night, he found his wife crying. She was trying 
to brush her hair, but every now and then the 
tears came so fast that she was obliged to put 
down her brush and give them her undivided 
attention. Mr.Swanfeltthata crisis was athand. 
He was not a man of quick perceptions; but he 
had had thirty years in which to perceive what 
sort of a woman his wife was, and, as her nature 
was far from complex, that time had sufficed to 
give him a good working acquaintance with her 
character. He had felt for weeks that something 
was on her mind; but he had thought it best not 
to question her. Now that her tears gave him a 
reason for speaking, he determined to probe the 
matter to the bottom. He drew up a chair and 
sat down beside her. 

"What's the matter, dear?" he asked, taking 

J5J 



A MIDDLE- 
her hand ; and the irresolute way in which she 
replied "Nothing especial" convinced him that 
she really wanted him to persevere and find out 
what was the trouble. "It's something to do with 
the typewriter, isn't it?" he continued, study- 
ing her face with the hope of reading there what- 
ever information she might try to withhold from 
him. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. He 
knew that he had guessed right. She would have 
contradicted him if he had been wrong. "Can't 
you master it, Carrie?" he inquired, putting his 
arm round her for the first time in a good many 
years. "Is it too hard for you?" 

"Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!" she faltered, 
dropping her head on his shoulder and bursting 
out crying afresh. "It's the work I've got to do, 
and the feeling that I can never stop, no matter 
how tired I am!" 

"But why can't you stop, my dear child? Why 
in the world should you do any work, anyway? 
We've got enough money to live on, thank God! 
It isn't your place to work." 

"Oh, yes, it is," his wife interposed hurriedly. 
"Clinton said" — She stopped. She had never 
told her husband of her conversion to the gos- 
pel of work, knowing that he would disapprove. 
She stopped, — but she stopped too late. 

"Clinton! Dbgh !" This is the nearest I can 
come to expressing Mr. Swan's imprecatory 
grunt. He rose and walked up and down the 
room in anger. "Well," he said, stopping at last 
in front of his wife and jambing his hands into 
his pockets, "so it was Clinton who made you 
get that bicyc — typewriter?" 

Mrs. Swan was silent. Her husband went on 

as if she had answered. "It's Clinton who's 

made you tire yourself out like a galley slave! 

I've noticed that you haven't been yourself for 

J52 



AGED WOMAN 

the last three months." Again there was no 
answer. 

*'I suppose he wants you to kill yourself writ- 
ing out his lectures on vegetarianism ! ' ' Mr.Swan 
continued savagely. 

''Oh, no— at least— I'll tell you all about it," 
Mrs. Swan said, recovering herself with an ef- 
fort and drying her eyes. She told her husband 
everything : how Clinton had converted her,ho w 
she had worked, and how she had grown tired 
of it. "I felt a little blue this evening," she con- 
cluded."Ishallbeallreadyforworkto-morrow." 

"I don't exactly see how you can work to- 
morrow, my dear," her husband said, smiling 
grimly, "for the typewriter's going back to the 
store to-morrow morning." 

Having delivered himself of this speech, Mr. 
Swan took off his clothes with some unneces- 
sary ferocity ,and went to bed, where he soothed 
himself to sleep by a series of dubious interjec- 
tions. 

The next afternoon, when Mr. Swan came 
home from his business, he found Clinton and 
Alison sitting in the drawing-room. Clinton had 
a package of manuscript in his hand. 

Mr. Swan assumed an air of affability. "Ah, 
what's that you've got there, Clinton?" he in- 
quired. "One of your lectures against capital- 
ists?" 

"It's his lecture on 'Improvement and Perfec- 
tion,' " Alison interposed; but her tact accom- 
plished nothing, for Clinton blurted out : "Some- 
thing I brought for your wife to typewrite." 

Mr. Swan laughed a little nervously. "Oh, 
that's too bad," he said with assumed sympa- 
thy, "for the typewriter was sent back to the 
store this very morning." 

J53 



A MIDDLE- 

Hathaway was deceived by the sympathetic 
tone of voice. "Was there anything the matter 
with it?" he asked innocently. 

Then at last a great thunder-cloud swept over 
Mr. Swan's face, and the storm burst. 

"No, sir!" he said, increasing his anger by 
talking very loud. "No, sir, there was nothing 
the matter with it. But there's something the 
matter with Mrs. Swan, thanks to your kindness 
in telling her it was her duty to kill herself! 
What do you mean, sir, by persuading a woman 
of her age that it's her duty to break her back 
over one of your confounded lectures about how 
every one ought to be a Jerusalem wildcat? It 
isn't your fault that she isn't as crazy as you and 
Alison ! If you'll leave my wife alone for the fu- 
ture, I'll be very much obliged to you!" 

Clinton's anger at this attack was eclipsed by 
his joy at being in a fight. He sprang to his feet, 
to the terror of Alison, who was really afraid he 
was going to assault and batter her father. But 
beonlywalkedrapidly about the room, and then 
stopped abruptly, looking Mr. Swan sternly in 
the eye. 

"Thank you," he said; "thankyou,Mr. Swan. 
Your remarks show how far human idiocy can 
go. Shorn of your comments on Alison's and my 
insanity, they consist of a demand for the rea- 
sons which impelled me to persuade your wife 
to commit suicide, and an intimation that you 
do not wish me to communicate with her in fu- 
ture. As to the first" — 

Here he stopped, for Mr. Swan, seeing that he 
was in for along argumentative discussion with 
Hathaway, a thing which he detested, turned 
away with an abrupt exclamation, and left the 
room. Like many another man he would rather 
be beaten than bored. Clinton had won many 
J54 



AGED WOMAN 

victories by talking well, and more by talking a 

great deal. 

The next morning, a little after ten o'clock, 
Mrs. Swan was in the library chatting with Mr. 
Bacon Bacon. She liked to talk to him, for he 
was the only one of the family circle whom she 
felt to be her intellectual inferior. She had been 
in high spirits ever since her husband had ve- 
toed her type-writing resolutions. She had the 
satisfaction of knowing in the first place that she 
had chosen the straight and narrow path, and 
in the second that she would never have to walk 
upon it. Her conscience was clear — at least — 
yes, her conscience was clear. The outer door 
opened; she heard a step on the stair — and sud- 
denly her conscience was not clear at all. 

Clinton strode into the room without noticing 
Bacon, and stood directly in front of Mrs. Swan, 
without speaking. She took out her handker- 
chief. 

"Am I to understand that you've given up the 
idea of working?" Clinton said at last. 

"Mr. Swan made me," Mrs. Swan answered, 
keeping back the tears with an effort. "It wasn't 
my fault." 

"But doyouwant to work?" Hathaway con- 
tinued, glaring at her through his terrible spec- 
tacles. "Weren't you glad when he sent that 
typewriter home?" 

"Yes, I was," Mrs. Swan replied, rousing up 
all her courage, and sitting up straight. "And 
I'm not going to work a bit more. It isn't my 
place, anyway. My place is to stay at home and 
make my husband and children comfortable." 

Clinton smiled coldly ."Andthree months from 
now," he said, "when your daughters are mar- 
ried, what will it be your place to do all daylong 
while your husband is at the office? To read a 

i55 



A MIDDLE- 

magazine?" — he paused — "or match a ribbon, 
or go to a lunch party?" 

Mrs. Swan said nothing. Those were exactly 
the things she meant to do. Bacon, who had been 
gradually bristling up at Clinton's insolent way 
of speaking, shouldered his way into the con- 
versation at this point. 

"Well, why shouldn't she?" he said, turning 
fiercely upon Hathaway. "Those are all very 
suitable things to do. It isn't a woman's place 
to work." 

"Nor yours to talk," said Clinton, without 
looking round. "Now, Mrs.Swan, just one word 
before we leave this business, — for I don't pro- 
pose to attack you again on the subject. There 
are two sorts of people in this world : those who 
do something, and those who don't. You have 
elected to belong to the latter kind. You're just 
an idle drone who crawls about and does noth- 
ing — very much like this little Bacon man here. 
If you were to die it wouldn't make any differ- 
ence. Your husband would mourn you for a 
year, and at the end of that time he'd get an- 
other wife, maybe worse than you, maybe bet- 
ter. You don't amount to anything. If you'd 
never been born, everything would be just as it 
is now. I see now that I was wrong in trying to 
make anything out of you. I hoped that you 
were idle only because you did not know it was 
your duty to work. Now I perceive that the dis- 
ease of doing nothing is so deeply ingrained in 
your system that it is impossible to kill it with- 
out killing you." 

Mrs. Swan shuddered. She was too much 
frightened to cry. Clinton walked to the door, 
but turned before taking his departure. 

"Good-bye, Mrs. Swan,"he said quietly, "and 
remember your position. You and those like you 
156 



AGED WOMAN 

are the camp-followers of the army of the world.' 
Under the pretext of making the soldiers com- 
fortable, you delay their progress, interfere with 
all their movements, and do your best to achieve 
their destruction." 

Having finished what he had to say, Clinton 
went out of the room and down-stairs. Mrs. 
Swan had retained sufficient consciousness to 
experience a distinct sense of relief when she 
heard the house door shut behind him. 

"That man is no gentleman!" Mr. Bacon ex- 
claimed, springing to his feet and pacing the 
floor as he had seen Hathaway do. "I almost 
thought of interrupting him or doing something. 
Don't mind what he said,"he added, sitting down 
beside Mrs. Swan. "I approve of you, and I 
should be sorry if you died, — at least, you know 
what I mean. And as to working, I don't see 
why you should work. I don't work, and I don't 
think it's necessary." 

Mrs. Swan glanced up at her sympathizer, 
and then let her eyes fall. "There are two sorts 
of people in the world," Clinton had said, and 
he was right. There was the Clinton Hathaway 
sort and the E. Bacon Bacon sort. For better 
or worse, she had thrown in her lot with the 
Bacon sort. She rose with an effort and looked 
at him again. He was not so intellectual looking 
as Clinton, but he was decidedly better dressed. 

"Haveyouanythingespecialtodo justnow?" 
she inquired, with an almost imperceptible note 
of sarcasm in her voice. 

"No, nothing at all. I never have in the morn- 
ing." 

"Well, won't you take me round to see Vir- 
ginia Pratt's wedding presents? Gladys says 
they're splendid." 

J57 



THE STARS 



I lay at my ease in my little boat, 

Fast moored to the shore of the pond, 

And looked up through the trees that swayed 
in the breeze 
At God's own sky beyond. 

And I thought of the want and the sin in the 
world, 

And the pain and the grief they bring. 
And I marveled at God for spreading abroad 

Such sorrow and suffering. 

Evening came creeping over the earth, 

And the sky grew dim and gray 
And faded from sight; and I grumbled at Night 

For stealing my sky away. 

Then out of the dark just the speck of a face 
Peeped forth from its window bars; 

And I laughed to see it smile at me: 
I had not thought of the stars ! 

There are millions of loving thoughts and deeds 

All ripe for awakening, 
That never would start from the world's cold 
heart 

But for sorrow and suffering. 

Yes, the blackening night is sombre and cold. 
And the day was warm and fine ; 

And yet if the day never faded away 
The stars would never shine ! 



LAETITIA 



I 



UNTAUGHT BY EXPERIENCE 



When John Markoe went on board the "Ful- 
da" at Genoa, he was surprised to find a letter 
waiting for him. It was from an intimate friend, 
a classmate at the University of Halle, who 
wrote as follows : — 

MiJNCHEN, September 30, 1890. 
Dear John: 

This is not a letter, but a warning. W^hy do you try for perhaps 
a year or more with your large family to live? You will not be in 
peace. I am older than you (laugh not, John ; a man can see and learn 
many things in two years), and perhaps I have had experiments 
which you have not known. You have two brothers, two sisters, a 
father and a mother, and they are all of them grown up. You cannot 
with them all in peace live, John ; try it not. If you are hard and stern 
and severe with them — I cannot well imagine it — then will they serve 
you and bow before you; but you will see that they are all afraid of 
you, and that will render you always uncomfortable. But if — and it 
is much more likely — you kneel to them and lick their hands and cast 
dust upon your head, then will they trample upon you and grind you 
to powder. I have the bad luck not to know personally your family. 
No matter. It is impossible for seven grown men and women to live 
together in happiness ; especially if two, your good father and mother, 
try to exercise control over the others. I cannot in a letter and in this 
villanous speech of yours well argue ; but ah, could I only now be 
talking with you face to face and in the speech of the Fatherland! 
In this matter, dear John, obey your Heinrich. Live where you like 
in any of those great North America cities: New York, Boston, Chi- 
cago, but not in Philadelphia ! 

If you decide to disobey me and to live at home (but I will not 
believe it possible), at least do your work out of the house, and come 
not back till evening time. But better far would it be to live in an- 
other city. Then would you preserve uninjured those feelings of ven- 
eration and affection for your parents, your brothers and your sisters, 
which would, I know well, undergo some stormy shocks if you insist 
to live with them in the same house. 

Be not offended, dear John, that I speak out of the heart. But 
believe me in this, as in all. 

Your true friend, 

HEINRICH KNOBELSDORF. 

John found this letter so characteristic of his 
friend that he laughed aloud several times while 

159 



h 



UNTAUGHT BY 
he was reading it. In the course of the next few 
days he thought about it more seriously, and 
wondered how much truth there was in it. Kno- 
belsdorf had a way of hitting the nail on the 
head, and seldom talked at random ; but certain- 
ly his views on the difficulties of family life were 
exaggerated. As to John's living anywhere but 
in Philadelphia, it was out of the question. Such 
a course would be apt to irritate the family far 
more than the necessary friction of every-day 
life could do. Knobelsdorf seemed to think they 
were all going to fight like cats and dogs. Why 
should they ? When six sensible men and women 
have rubbed along comfortably for years, are 
they going to be set by the ears merely by the 
advent of an inoffensive young Greek professor ? 
How could Knobelsdorf judge of persons whom 
he had never seen and barely heard of ? Because 
one family could not live together happily was 
no reason why another should not. Because the 
Knobelsdorfs were always at loggerheads was 
no reason why the Markoes should take to fight- 
ing. Yet in an intimate friendship of five years 
John had never known Heinrich to take a def- 
initestand on anyimportantmatter without hav- 
ing a great deal of reason on his side. It was 
clearly impossible for John to go to live in Bos- 
ton or New York ; but, onthe other hand, it was 
perfectly easy to take warning when there was 
a cry of "Breakers ahead !" His final determina- 
tion was to live with his family in Philadelphia 
as he had always intended, but to take advan- 
tage of his German friend's advice. He would 
never get into a quarrel with any member of his 
family if he could possibly help it ; and if he did 
get into one, he would get out of it as fast as he 
could. 

John Peterson Markoe was twenty-five years 



EXPERIENCE 

old. He had been studying Greek for five years 
in Germany, and had worked even harder than 
his German classmates at Halle. He was short 
and stout. Hard study had as yet worn no lines 
in his face. Had it not been for his large round 
spectacleSjhis appearance would have beenboy- 
ish, for he'was clean shaven. His hair was dark 
and much too longto be fashionable. His clothes 
were ill-chosen and carelessly put on. His boots 
always seemed as if they had been blacked a 
few days before. During the twelve days that 
he was on board the "Fulda," he spent most of 
his time in reading, and paid very little atten- 
tion to what the other passengers were doing; 
but whenever he looked up from his book and 
glanced about him, his indefatigable little black 
eyes could evidently see a great deal in a very 
short time. His fellow passengers were irritated 
at his studiousness, and arranged several excel- 
lent practical jokes to play upon him ; but all 
their plans were foiled by those wonderful little 
eyes. Markoe was old for his age, though he 
looked young. He was endowed with that 
strange power of exquisitely delicate sympathy, 
more wonderful than the gifts of fairies in the 
story books, which enables its possessor to un- 
derstand the thoughts and motives of others 
merely by their faces and by what they say. He 
was quick-tempered, and controlled his temper 
only fairly well. In his manners and customs 
he had changed considerably in the five years 
that had passed since he had been with his fam- 
ily. The foundation of a man's character is apt 
to stay the same from his first childhood to his 
second. 

John found it very pleasant to be at home 
again. He surprised the family at lunch, and 
there was a great deal of clatter and welcoming 

\6t 



UNTAUGHT BY 
and laughing and crying when he appeared at 
the door. Every one was dehghted to see him. 
His older brother Ericsson could not help sneer- 
ing at his spectacles, and saying that in his opin- 
ionthe glass in them was common windowglass ; 
but apart from this nothing disagreeable was 
said. Mr. Markoe was anxious to hear about the 
young German emperor, and was much pleased 
when John said, "He looks something like you, 
father." Mrs. Markoe was delighted to find out 
for certain that John had not had an illness since 
he left home. "Your letters never spoke of your 
health, and I thought you might be concealing 
something," she said. Laetitia, the youngest of 
the Markoes, asked John how he liked the Al- 
hambra, and was sadly disconcerted when, 
amidst the general laughter, she was informed 
that the Alhambra was not in Germany. Walter, 
John's younger brother, was all agog at the trav- 
eler's bloody accounts of student duelling, and 
made John promise to give him a lesson in the 
use of the short swordthat very day. As to Mary 
Markoe, the oldest of the young people, she 
called the attention of the company to the fact 
that she had prophesied at breakfast that John 
would come within twenty-four hours. Lunch- 
eon was prolonged far into the afternoon in 
John's honor. Every face beamed with pleasure 
at seeing him. He felt that his welcome was 
warmer than he deserved, and he wished Kno- 
belsdorf could be there to see. 

When John first read Knobelsdorf's letter, the 
idea of the Markoes living together on unpleas- 
ant terms seemed to him absurd. Before he left 
home for Germany five years ago, they had 
rubbed along pleasantly enough. But at that time 
Ericsson was off on a two years' expedition 
round the world, and Walter and Laetitia were 
i62 



EXPERIENCE 

children.When John came back,everything was 
different. The Markoes were all of them sen- 
sitive, and all of them quick-tempered ; but none 
of them except Mrs. Markoe and John realized 
that the others were so. Mr. Markoe, precise as 
an instructor at West Point, was continually- 
irritated by the inconsequent behavior and un- 
punctual habits of the rest of the family ; and 
they were as much annoyed by his punctilio as 
he could possibly be by their lack of formality. 
Mrs. Markoe kept her temper wonderfully ; but 
she was often a blazing fire within. She did her 
share in keeping up the general irritation by tel- 
ling long and unprofitable stories in which no 
one was interested. As far as John could find out, 
Ericsson regarded the rest of the family as a set 
of fools. He certainly treated them as such. Wal- 
ter was his mother's spoiled darling; but all the 
others looked upon him as little better than an 
idle vagabond, for he had as yet no occupation. 
He took no especial interest in the family, ex- 
cept occasionally when he wanted them to do 
something for him. The two girls were very dif- 
ferent from each other. Mary was in a chronic 
state of displeasure with the whole family be- 
cause they would not sympathize with certain 
ailments with which, as she maintained, she 
was afflicted. The rest of the family were bored 
to death with hearing of these ailments, and Mrs. 
Markoe was the only one who made the slightest 
pretence of believing in them. As to Laetitia, she 
was a good deal sillier than most girls who are 
just entering society. She would have liked the 
family well enough if they had not laughed at 
everything she said. As she could not help talk- 
ing, she could not escape being laughed at. Such 
were the terms on which the Markoes were liv- 
ing when John came back among them. What 

(63 



UNTAUGHT BY 

surprised him was that, when every one was on 
rather bad terms with every one else, the family 
as a whole appeared to be getting along pretty 
well. 

After his arrival there ensued a time of per- 
fect harmony between him and the others, a 
golden age, or, more properly speaking, a gol- 
den month. John was given the great spare room 
only one flight up for his work-room. Here he 
wouldshuthimselfupeverymorningfrombreak- 
f ast till luncheon time, working hard at his Greek 
or sitting back in an arm-chair, smoking his long 
German pipe and thinking. He was preparing 
a new edition of Aristophanes' ^'Clouds," with 
voluminous notes, a vocabulary, and an Eng- 
lish translation. He was seldom molested at his 
work. In the afternoon and evening he saw a 
good deal of the rest of the family ; but he made 
tremendous efforts not to quarrel with them, and 
met with considerable success. Ericsson put 
him up for the Buckingham Club and saw that 
he was elected, and then let him alone, much to 
John's satisfaction, for an angel of light could 
not have lived pleasantly with Ericsson. The 
family really exerted itself to make the returned 
wanderer enjoy himself. Walter took him to the 
theatre several times, and if John always paid 
for the tickets, it was only because Walter did 
not happen to have the money with him. Mrs. 
Markoe told him long stories of things that had 
occurred at home while he was in Germany .John 
made every exertion to be uniformly kind and 
considerate. He even tried to sympathize with 
Mary's mysterious ailments. She told him flatly 
that he could not possibly understand them, a 
statement with which he fully concurred as soon 
as shebegan to explain about them. Onthe whole, 
however, he and Mary did tolerably well. He 
{64 



EXPERIENCE 

never laughed at Laetitia like the rest of the 
family. He tried to observe all Mr. Markoe's 
rules of behavior and to come down promptly 
to breakfast. He was very considerate of the 
family, and, for Markoes, they were very con- 
siderate of him. Altogether it was a golden 
month. 

In family life one is judged by a comparative, 
not a positive standard. Every one wins for him- 
self a certain reputation. He gains the approval 
or disapproval of others not because his acts are 
good or bad, but because they arebetterorworse 
than they usually are. Ameeksoncreates a dread- 
ful commotion and draws down parental fires 
of wrath on his head by a few cross words. A 
fierce, unruly son gains commendation by being 
less cross than usual. We regard the members 
of our family as we regard the stocks in which 
we have invested. We do not care whether they 
are high or low ; the high onesmay be lower than 
when we bought them, and the low ones higher ; 
what we care about is whether they are going 
up or down. 

All this John found out to his cost. Ericsson 
Markoe behaved like a rather fine-looking, very 
well combed grizzly bear. When he was touched, 
he growled and showed his teeth; and so of 
course no one touched him. John was more like 
an amiable Newfoundland dog in spectacles, 
who is fond of children and lets them plague him. 
I have seen such a dog (without the spectacles) 
tormented by the hour together. One child blows 
in his ear, a second sticks burs in his tail, a third 
combs him with a rake, a fourth lifts him up by 
his hind legs and makes him walk wheelbarrow. 
Imagine what would happen if they tried such 
tricks with the grizzly! Whr-r-r! Click, click, 
click! Ghoulp, ghoulp! They would all be swal- 

i65 



UNTAUGHT BY 
lowed in a moment ! If Ericsson took a flower 
from his buttonhole and gave it to his mother, 
saying : "The stem's broken and I don't want it; 
I suppose you may as well have it as the scrap 
basket," — she would be as much pleased as if 
John went down town on purpose and brought 
her home a bouquet. And when John asked if 
the bread might not be cut a little thinner,it made 
as much of a commotion as when Ericsson said 
that the soup was burnt and that he didn't care 
to eat pig's food, whatever the family liked, and 
then rose from the table and flung of f to the club. 
One by one the Markoes began to see that John 
never quarrelled or complained ; and one by one 
they began tentatively to impose upon him. As 
John was no saint, especially where keeping his 
temper was concerned, it soon became evident, 
to him, at least, that there was a line toward 
which all the Markoes were progressing, and 
that if any of them crossed the line there would 
be an explosion. As it happened, Mr. Markoe 
was the first to cross. 

Dictatorial power is apt to be bad for people, 
and in no case is this better shown than in that 
of the fathers of families. The father of a family, 
being a middle-aged or elderly man, usually oc- 
cupies a high place in his business, whatever it 
may be. He thus passes half his time in one at- 
mosphere of respect and awe, and the other half 
in another. In spite of all this, some fathers of 
families are genial and merry, and as good com- 
pany as you would wish to meet. Others are so 
impressed with all the deference paid them, that 
they think they must have done something to 
deserve it. Where there is so much smoke, they 
think there must be considerable of a fire. Then 
they develop into most intolerably conceited 
humbugs. They generally say very little, pre- 
\66 



EXPERIENCE 

sumably because their words are too precious 
to be wasted.They dole out money to their wives 
and children as if they were doing a generous 
action, and accept the recipient's respectful 
thanks as if they deserved considerable grati- 
tude. They are treated with great consideration 
by young men visiting the family, and they treat 
the young men like well-meaning fools. They 
speak to their grown-up daughters and their 
friends as if they were children. They occasion- 
ally assume a haughty tone toward their wives, 
apparently so as to make them feel how kind 
and condescending they usually are to treat 
them decently. They are at the same time re- 
spectable and unbearable. 

Mr. Peter Erskine Markoe was, I regret to say , 
a remarkably fine specimen of the genus which 
I have just described. I am glad you never heard 
himlecturingMary,awomanofthirty, on proper 
and improper expenditures, when he gave her 
her monthly allowance ; or haughtily reproving 
his wife because she had bought some wall paper 
with arsenic in it. I think you could hardly have 
kept your hands off him. If he ever had the honor 
of entertaining an eminent specialist at dinner, 
he usually took the opportunity to state his 
opinion, always a commonplace one, on the 
particular matter in which his guest was inter- 
ested. If the great man replied, even if he com- 
pletely disproved Mr. Markoe's statements, that 
gentleman's only rejoinder was to repeat ex- 
actly what he had said before. You might as well 
try to argue with one of Edison's dolls, which 
can only say one thing. More than once did John 
see contemptuous smile cross the face of a dis- 
tinguished visitor as he changed the subject and 
turned to talkto Mrs. Markoe. Mr. Markoe never 
noticed such a smile. He was very proud of be- 

167 



UNTAUGHT BY 

ing able to upset great men from their own hob- 
bies. If he had ever entertained the Pope of 
Rome, I don't doubt that he would have stated 
that he was a Protestant, and given his reasons 
for it; and that if the Supreme Pontiff had been 
foolish enough to argue the point, Mr. Markoe 
would have repeated those reasons till His Holi- 
ness had had enough. 

Such a man as this and John Markoe were not 
well calculatedtolivepleasantly together. John's 
sharp eyes and clear head could not help de- 
tecting how much sense and how much show 
there was to his father; and when Mr. Markoe 
made One of his sententious, twice-repeated re- 
marks, John did not know whether he wanted 
more to laugh or to cry. I suppose that Mr. Mar- 
koe must have felt in some dim way that John 
was critical. He certainly found plenty of other 
faults in the young Greek scholar. John's bohe- 
mian tastes, his abominable clothes, his long 
hair, his iron-rimmed spectacles, his fondness 
for staying in bed late, his long German pipe, 
— all these Mr. Markoe could not away with. 
At first he treated John with the same deference 
which he yielded to Ericsson ; but mistaking self- 
control for a mean spirit, as we are all of us apt 
to do, he began to say unbearable things to John, 
all of them with reference to the points in which 
he considered the young man deficient. John 
displayed great self-command; but he saw, not 
with unmixed pain, that the time must come 
v/hen his father and he would have it out. One 
morning after breakfast, whenMr.Markoe-asked 
him to step into the library to hear something 
he had to say to him, John felt that the time had 
come. 

When the two were seated, Mr. Markoe 
coughed and began: "When you first arrived 
J 68 



EXPERIENCE 

from Europe, John, you brought with you some 
customs and manners which were- a constant 
source of grief to me." Mr. Markoe's speeches 
sounded like a letter being readaloud. "But your 
coming," he went on, "was at first so recent that 
I restrained any comments I might wish to make 
on these matters. You have now been here a 
month, and, as the head of the household, I feel 
it my duty to make some remark upon your pe- 
culiarities." 

"Do you ever make remarks to Ericsson on 
his peculiarities ?" John asked, with just enough 
self-controlremainingtomakehimsarcasticand 
not openly angry. Mr. Markoe smiled superior. 

"If you had ever studied law, as I have," he 
replied, "you would know that it is not consid- 
ered legal, or at least good etiquette, to wander 
from the point. What I have to say is briefly 
this. Your clothes are perfectly shocking, John. 
No gentleman would be seen in them. And can 
you not procure some more elegant glasses, that 
would make you look less like a German pro- 
fessor? These may seem small points, John; 
but I assureyouthey annoy me excessively, and 
I have heard several other persons speak of 
them. Your mother is in despair because the cur- 
tains of your room are so filled with the odor 
proceeding from that abominable German pipe 
of yours that she fears the smell can never be 
removed. I am sorry to criticize the company 
you keep ; but really some of the men you bring 
to the house are, whatever their mental endow- 
ments,positively unpresentable. That Professor 
Blittersdorf"— 

"Look here, father," John broke in, rising, "if 
you take occasion to allude to one of those sub- 
jects again, I'll leave the house in an hour. I'm 
not dependent on you, I'm thankful to say ; and 

169 



UNTAUGHT BY 

I'mnot going to be treated like a child.You think 
because I've allowed you to insult me several 
times without taking any notice of it, that I 
haven't got any temper. I tell you I have, and 
that Ericsson and I got it from the same source. 
Now, I'm going to get out, for if I stay I'll say 
something I may be sorry for. But there are just 
two words I've got to say before I go, and those 
are. Look out!" 

And with this theatrical speech John stamped 
out of the room. The Markoes were always the- 
atrical when they were excited. Mr. Markoe 
started to rush after his son, but changed his 
mind, and sat down in a chair to think it all over. 

Some men are born debtors. They begin to 
borrow just as they begin to walk and speak, 
only with infinitely less effort. They are always 
in debt, whatever their incomes may be. Such 
men often have the reputation of being gener- 
ous, but it is never positively known, for they 
never have any money to give away. They are 
in a chronic state of want, not because their in- 
comes are small, but because they consider cer- 
tain unnecessary things necessary, and these 
thingshappentocostmore than they can afford. 
Other men, who rate their necessities lower, 
always have money to spare, and are hence 
looked upon as a natural prey by the born bor- 
rowers. i?his second class of men are usually 
regarded as a stingy set by the other class, be- 
cause, though they often lend a great deal, they 
always draw the line somewhere, whereas the 
borrowers are not given to drawing lines. 

Walter Markoe belonged to the first class; 
John to the second. When John arrived, Wal- 
ter, who received from his father an allowance 
of a hundred dollars a month, owed Mr. Mar- 
J70 



EXPERIENCE 

koe four hundred dollars, Mrs. Markoe nine 
hundred, Mary thirteen dollars, Ericsson a hun- 
dred and fifty, and Laetitia ninety-five. Be- 
fore John had been at home three days, Walter 
had borrowed fifty dollars of him. Two weeks 
later he borrowed fifty more. Two weeks later 
he undertook toborrowfiftymore; buttherewas 
where John drew the line. John had only five 
hundred dollars left from the thousand that he 
had earned by tutoring in college before he went 
to Germany on a fellowship. He had worked 
too hard for the money to waste it on Walter, 
and he told Walter so. Walter spoke of repay- 
ing it the next month, and John told him he 
didn't believe he would. Walter went off in a 
genuine Markoe rage, and henceforward vied 
with his father in making cutting remarks about 
John, whether he was present or not. Whatever 
good taste was lacking in these comments was 
made up by the strength of the invective. 

There are two codes of morals in the world: 
the code of real morals, and the code of society 
morals. Some men are good men; others are good 
fellows. I do not know what the real unpardon- 
able sin is : perhaps there isn't any; but the un- 
pardonable sin of society, by which I mean 
human intercourse, istalkingtoomuch. No tact, 
no "savoir faire," can defeat the intentions of 
those who talk too much, if they once get you 
in their toils. Talking too much is a disease 
which takes hold of some persons; and, when 
they are once inoculated, they must talk. Some- 
times they really think people want to hear 
them ; at other times they are perfectly conscious 
that they are talking upon sufferance. In the 
latter case they perhaps say: "I know you are 
tired of hearing me talk, but I really must tell 
you' ' — and so on. They are perfectly right. They 

171 



UNTAUGHT BY 

must tell you ; they cannot help it. They are not 
wicked. Sometimes they are considerate of their 
friends in other ways. I do not want to blame 
them any more than I wantto blame a lame man 
or a victim of smallpox. But I wish some way 
might be invented for a polite gentleman to es- 
cape from them after they have once opened 
fire upon him. 

Mrs. Markoe had early contracted this dis- 
ease, and was now so far gone that there was 
no hope of a cure. She was an excellent woman 
in other respects. In spite of her quick temper 
and sensitive nerves, she was the one member 
of the family who tried to keep the others at 
peace, and who almost never flew out at any- 
thing herself. She was closely attached to her 
husband and children, and was I think the only 
person in the world who could be said to be 
really fond of Ericsson. She was not only kind 
and charitable; she was well read, and possessed 
excellent abilities. But her passion for talking 
knew no bounds. In his desire to conciliate the 
family, John laid himself open to her attacks; 
and sometimes she talked to him for as much 
as two hours at a time. Her remarks consisted 
principally of minute descriptions, — sometimes 
of her own adventures, sometimes of stories she 
had heard, sometimes of places, sometimes of 
books. John tried to give her his complete atten- 
tion, — and failed; but it made no difference. 
Mrs. Markoe's perceptions were quick, and she 
was probably conscious when she was boring 
her son ; but, like the slaves of other bad habits, 
she could not resist her one great temptation. 
The other members of the family had some de- 
fensive armor. Ericsson would get up and walk 
out of the room with a smothered imprecation, 
when his mother said more than a few words 
J 72 



EXPERIENCE 

to him. Walter would yawn out: "Oh, come 
now, mother, that's enough, you know." Each 
had his mode of defence except John; but John 
could not bear to strain the close bonds of af- 
fection and intimacy which had always bound 
him to his mother. So he always treated her with 
polite consideration, and, as she had no other 
mark, her whole quiverful of anecdote and con- 
versation was emptied by her sending arrow af- 
ter arrow at the one person who stood still and 
let her shoot. 

The craving for sympathy is a natural feeling 
and a laudable one. It is one of the signs of hu- 
man interdependence. But to exact sympathy 
and then repay it with ametaphorical slap in the 
face, is unpardonable. "Sympathize with me." 
*'I do sympathize with you." "No you don't, for 
you can't, having no conception of what I suf- 
fer." But has not the sympathizer a conception 
of how much the sufferer suffers ? Very possibly 
a juster one than the sufferer himself. The suf- 
ferer, feeling his sufferings very present to him- 
self, and seeing that most people do not appear 
to suffer, jumps to the conclusion that he suffers 
more than any one else, and hence that he suf- 
fers an enormous amount. But the sympathizer, 
knowing the character of the sufferer and what 
signs of suffering he gives, and knowing the 
characters of other sufferers and the signs of suf- 
fering they give, is sometimes better fitted to 
judge impartially. When you are lying down in 
a meadow, the blade of grass close to your eye 
appears larger than the great elm tree across the 
field ; but if you shout out that it is larger, a man 
standing at a distance from both the two plants 
probably disagrees with you. He is right and you 
are wrong. Yet you are much more intimately 

J 73 



UNTAUGHT BY 

acquainted with that piece of grass than he is. 

John and Mary were sitting together in the 
parlor one day about two months after John's 
arrival. Suddenly Mary dropped her embroi- 
dery on her lap and put her hand to her fore- 
head. 

"Oh, my poor, poor head !" she said. 

John looked up from his reading. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Mary," said he. "Does it 
ache very badly?" 

"You can have no conception how it aches,'* 
Mary replied. "There's a dull, constant,benumb- 
ing pain always going on, and then occasional 
throbs of frightful agony when I feel as if I should 
die." 

"It's too bad," observed John. "I wish I could 
do something for you. I'm awfully sorry." 

"You're not really sorry," said Mary. "No one 
is. Yesterday Ericsson said he didn't believe I 
ever had headaches. Then he swore, and said 
it was all a sham ; and I know that you all think 
so, only you don't say so." 

"Indeed I don'tthink so, Mary. I'm really and 
truly sorry for you. I've had headaches myself^ 
and I know what they are." 

"Know what they are! As if a great strong 
man like you could realize what a sensitive 
woman feels ! No. I never can get any real sym- 
pathy." 

"Why, Mary, I'm trying to sympathize with 
you now." 

"Yes, that's just it. You're trying. Sympathy 
ought to be spontaneous." 

"Upon my word, Mary, you're hard to suit." 

"There, John, I knew you were only making 
believe. Now you come out in your true colors. 
I prefer to have people say what they think, like 
Ericsson." 
174 



EXPERIENCE 

"Well, then, if you want people to say what 
they think, I'll tell you just what I think. I think 
you have headaches sure enough, and I think 
mother has twice as bad ones. I think you make 
eighteen times as much fuss about them as she 
does.I thinkyou'd bettertry to think about what 
other people are suffering once in a long time. 
I think you're always trying to make folks pity 
you, — and when they do, you make them sorry 
they have. I think I won't trouble you with my 
sympathy again. That's what I think, as long as 
you want to know it." 

With that he pounded out of the room in true 
Markoe fashion, while Mary burst into tears. 

Laetitia Lydia Markoe was a good illustra- 
tion of the doctrine of compensations. She was 
a beauty, and she did not have such a quick tem- 
per as her brothers and sisters; but to make up 
for these advantages, she was the scatter- witted 
member of the family. Sometimes John thought 
she had never read a book through. At first he 
was much surprised to find that she did not know 
who was vice-president of the United States. 
Three months later he was astonished when it 
proved that she did not know who was presi- 
dent. How she had gone through an expensive 
school without learning anything, he could not 
imagine; buthe realized, on meeting some of her 
intimate friends, that she was not the only one 
who managed to do so. Laetitia had an amazing 
head for modern history of a certain kind: she 
could tell you just what girls Valentine Riddle 
had been attentive to, and in what order; and 
she knew for certain that the rumor that Leo- 
nora Vista was engaged was false; but she did 
not know what the tariff was, or free trade, or 
home rule ; and had never, so far as she remem- 
bered, heard of Louis XIV., or Louis XVI., or 

175 



UNTAUGHT BY 
Danton, or Robespierre, or Mirabeau. In fact, 
with a few unimportant exceptions, she knew 
nothing. 

John and she were great friends during that 
first golden month ; and it was his fault that they 
did not continue to be so. But he could not bear 
her company, — she was so stupid and so foolish. 
If she had not been his sister, he could have 
flirted with her, might have fallen in love with 
her for aught I know, and all would have been 
well. As it was, he soon tired of her senseless 
chatter about LouisthisandCorathat and Sadie 
something else. So he snubbed her once or twice, 
and she did not bother him again. Poor Laetitia ! 
She was really fond of John, and it went to her 
poor little frivolous heart when she saw that he 
thought her shallow and stupid. Once she ac- 
tually went into the library and brought thence 
a serious book to read it ; but before she had fin- 
ished two pages, Belle Winter came in, and the 
book was forgotten in the delights of an elab- 
orate account of Irene Hunt's wedding dress. 

It was in January, three months after John's 
arrival, that Miss Marion Quinlan Markoe, Mr. 
Markoe's sister, came on from Boston to spend 
two months with her brother's family. She was 
small and dark, with a very sharp tongue and 
with small black eyes, like John's, that could see 
a great deal. John was turned out of the spare 
room for her benefit; and the offending curtains 
were thoroughly aired. 

"Come, John," she said, as the two were sit- 
ting in what was now her room, an hour after 
her arrival, ''tell me all about the family. How 
do you get on with them?" 

John smiled sadly."! don't get on with them," 
he replied. 
176 



EXPERIENCE 

"Well, of course you don't get on with Erics- 
son," Miss Markoe resumed cheerfully. "You 
might as well try to get on with a wild bull of 
Bashan. But your mother, now, or Laetitia, or 
even your father? Can't you manage it?" 

John shook his head. Miss Markoe did not say 
anything more for some time, but sat with her 
little head on her little hand. When she spoke, 
it was without her usual animation. 

"You'd bettergoawayfromhere,John.There's 
no use trying. Seven grown men and women 
can't be happy in the same house, especially if 
they're Markoes; and now that I've come, 
there'll be eight of us." 

"Oh,butyou'll help,not hinder, Aunt Marion." 

"I don't know that, child. I'm as bad as the 
rest of you. No, John, you'll be quarreling with 
me yourself before a month is past. Yes, you 
will, — Iknowit.Can'tyougosomewhere?Don't 
any of the colleges want Greek professors?" 

"I had two or three chances in the autumn; 
but I v/anted to finish my book; and besides" 
— he smiled as he went on — "I thought I should 
like to be with the family for a while." 

"Oh, foolish, foolish John! Now promise me 
you'll take the first chance you get." 

"No, Aunt Marion, I won't promise. I think 
I shall do better with the family, — all but Erics- 
son, — although Heinrich Knobelsdorf wrote to 
me just what you have said." 

"John, I won'ttake No for an answer. You see 
we're quarreling already. As to that Kummels- 
dort, I wish I knew him. He evidently knows 
what he's talking about in spite of his idiotic 
name." 

It was amusing and sad at the same time to 
see how soon Miss Markoe's prediction that she 

177 



UNTAUGHT BY 

and John would quarrel was verified. Miss 
Marion never could abide her sister-in-law with 
her power of endless talking. Families are al- 
ways trying to make relations-in-lawinto blood 
relations, and are always failing. Mrs. Markoe 
happened to observe that she did not think it 
necessary to make a dinner call within a week. 
Miss Markoe said that no lady would omit do- 
ing so. The obvious inference was that Mrs. 
Markoe was not a lady. John opened fire on his 
mother's behalf, and he and his aunt delivered 
broadside after broadside at each other. They 
made it up afterward; but as Miss Marion had 
remarked, she was no better than the other Mar- 
koes. She used to have long conversations with 
John, in which she pointed out to him the fail- 
ings of each member of the family; and, worse 
than that, she drew him on into similar petty 
invectives. He heartily wished she was back 
again in Boston. 

In spite of the fact that John irritated most of 
his family and that they all irritated him, he was 
fond of them all, except perhaps Ericsson; and 
his affection for them made his life at home all 
the harder to bear. He could with difficulty en- 
dure his father's politely calling his mother a 
fool, as he did perhaps five times a day. "My 
dear, your views on civil service reform are 
exactly what I should expect from a woman." 
After such a speech Ericsson would quit for a 
moment his habitual look of displeasure, and 
laugh loudly, while John would just manage to 
restrain himself from throwing a plate at his 
father's head. Walter's insulting jokes and 
laughter when Mary spoke of her ailments were 
equally unpleasant to listen to. John thought 
seriously of giving Walter a sound thrashing 
J 78 



EXPERIENCE 

one day when the young fellow had been espe- 
cially ungentlemanly ; but, as Walter was much 
larger and stronger than he, he relinquished 
the idea, realizing the truth of the couplet : 

"Johnny wouldn't 
'Cause he couldn't." 

Another thing that led all his better feelings to 
revolt was the really cruel way in which the 
family treated Laetitia. Walter and Ericsson 
and Mr. Markoe vied with each other in expos- 
ingthepoorchild'signorance, and then laughing 
at it. John tried to defend her several times, but 
he merely enlarged the fight and failed to stop 
it. Finally he gave up interfering. Only when 
Laetitia left the table crying, as she sometimes 
did, he would go after her and try to comfort her 
by abusing her tormentors. 

One day, when John came down to breakfast 
late, as usual, he found the family in an un- 
wonted state of quiet, which he foolishly mis- 
took for peace. It was in reality one of the pauses 
which were apt to ensue after an especially bru- 
tal remark of Ericsson's. The various members 
of the party happened to be characteristically 
occupied. Walter was emptying a silver pitcher 
of maple syrup on his griddle cakes. There were 
tears in Laetitia's great blue eyes, a sufficient 
evidenceto show who was the recipient of Erics- 
son's last piece of politeness. Mr. Markoe was 
stirring his coffee and looking very wise. Mrs. 
Markoe was glancing about the table to see if 
there was not somethingthat somebody wanted, 
and talking to herself. Ericsson was scowling 
at the newspaper. Mary had one hand upon her 
forehead,whilewiththeothershe dropped some 
medicine into a wine-glass. Miss Marion was 
sitting bolt upright, looking at every one at the 
same time. 

t79 



_ UNTAUGHT BY 

Mrs. Markoe glanced up at John and smiled 
when he came in. 

"How was the Professor's Club last night, 
John?" she inquired. "My father always used 
to say that he found it the most enjoyable of 
the clubs. It was" — 

"I thought you wanted John to tell about it," 
growled Ericsson. 

"Don'tinterrupt,Ericsson,"said Aunt Marion 
intrepidly. "What were you saying, Lydia?" 

But Mrs. Markoe did not come to her res- 
cuer's assistance."I'mafraid I don't remember," 
she said nervously. 

Ericsson laughed his great, brutal laugh. 
"Why, you talk so little, I should think you'd 
remember, mother," he observed. "As to your 
remark. Aunt Marion, I'm not learning lessons 
in manners just at present." 

"No," said Aunt Marion, sipping her coffee, 
"and you never did, and never will." 

Ericsson brought his fist down on the table 
with a bang. "Father, how many times are you 
going to let Aunt Marion insult me at your table ?" 
he inquired fiercely. 

Mr. Markoe looked from one to the other with 
a bewildered air. "Come, come, this will never 
do," he said. 

"Marion, you didn't mean anything, I'm sure. 
You don't object to apologizing, do you?" 

Miss Marion kept on sipping her coffee. "Not 
a bit," she said. "Ericsson, I humbly apologize 
for ever having thought you were a gentleman. 
John, kindly stand by me if your brother under- 
takes to knock me down." 

Ericsson rose to his feet. "Look here, father !" 
he cried, "eitherAunt Marion or I leavethe house 
to-morrow! Which shall it be?" 

"Oh, Ericsson!" Mrs. Markoe broke in, with 
180 



EXPERIENCE 

tears in her eyes. "Don't talk like that, my dear. 
Remember that you're speaking to a lady. I'm 
sure your aunt didn't mean to vex you. I'm 
sure" — 

"That's right; talk, talk, talk, mother! That'll 
settle everything," said Ericsson, glad to find a 
weaker antagonist than the redoubtable Miss 
Marion. 

There was a short pause, and Laetitia took 
advantage of it. 

"I wish some one would suggest what I'm to 
wear at the Renaissance ball," she said. "I don't 
know exactly what to wear. Would it be all right 
to appear as Cassandra?" 

"That's a good idea," said Mr. Markoe. "Or 
you might try Martha Washington." 

"Or Charlotte Corday, or Lot's wife," sug- 
gested Mary. 

"Or Mrs.Grover Cleveland !" shouted Walter. 

"But she didn't live at the right time, did she? " 
asked poor Laetitia, her eyes gradually filling 
with tears. 

"Why don't you go as Dante's Beatrice, or 
as Isabella of Castile?" suggested John kindly. 

"Now you're making fun of me, too!" said 
Laetitia, rising and leaving the table. "I don't 
believe there were such people ! ' ' — and in watery 
indignation, pursued by shouts of laughter, she 
made her way to her room. 

Things grew worse and worse, till at last they 
were fairly insupportable. Every time that John 
made uphis mind anew that he would be patient, 
and if possible agreeable, he was vanquished ei- 
ther by a flow of conversation from his mother,a 
complaint from Mary, a reproof from his father, 
or an insult from Walter. Instead of becoming 
more patient, he found that he was growing less 

J8J 



UNTAUGHT BY 

so. As every day went by he felt that he could 
not spend another twenty-four hours in the 
house. He often began a day by feeling that he 
had thought too hardly of his family; he gen- 
erally ended it by feeling that he had not thought 
hardly enough of them. He took to looking over 
Knobelsdorf'sletter,andthinking that there was 
a good deal of truth in it ; and he began to won- 
der where he would go if he went away from 
Philadelphia. 

It was in the early part of February that he 
definitely gave up the fight and determined to 
leave home as soon as possible. A number of in- 
cidents occurring in rapid succession hastened 
his conclusion. He had a stormy interview with 
Walter, who absolutely refused to give back the 
money he had borrowed, on the ground that he 
had none. Mr. Markoe read John a severe lec- 
ture on the lazy life he was leading. John replied 
that he was working five times as hard as his 
father was, — which was not true, for both were 
inrealityhardworkers. One morning when John 
came in to breakfast he heard his mother say: 
"I think John is a perfect gentleman !" The loud 
chorus of laughs and jeers which greeted this 
remark showed that the other members of the 
family were not of her opinion. That very even- 
ing when John came from the club he found a 
special delivery letter awaiting him. It was dated 
at a large western university, and read as fol- 
lows: 

MR. JOHN P. MARKOE: 

Dear Sir, — Our instructor in Greek is dangerously ill, and we have 
no one to take his place. I understand that you are not now actively 
occupied. The faculty wishes to know if you cannot take the place 
for the rest of the year and help us out. I know that your education, 
reputation, and talents justify you in looking for something higher; 
but our present Greek professor, Mr. Calthrop, is thinking of resign- 
ing from his position next summer (please do not mention the cir- 
cumstance); and if you become acquainted with the work being done, 
I don't see, though of course I cannot promise, why you may not hope 

182 



EXPERIENCE 

to occupy his place. Your salary for the rest of this year will be a 
hundred and fifty dollars a month. 

Write me an answer immediately, or better, telegraph that you 
are coming, and start right away. 
Hoping for a favorable reply, I am 

Very truly yours, 

SAMUEL B. CONWAY, President. 

Three months before, John would have re- 
fused an instructorship with scorn. Now he 
would have hugged the letter, if it had been big 
enough. He went immediately to the telegraph 
office and despatched his answer. When he 
came home, he got out his trunk and packed it, 
although he usually deferred his packing till the 
last moment. He wanted to feel that he was 
really going to start the next morning. When he 
went to bed, he was as happy as a boy of eigh- 
teen who was to begin his college career the 
next day. In the morning, when he was half 
through his breakfast, he suddenly turned to his 
father. 

"You know you said the other day that you 
didn't think I was working hard enough, father," 
he said. 

"Yes, yes, I do recollect that I made some 
such observation, and that you" — 

"Well, never mind that. I've no doubt I was 
very rude and impolite. But what I want to say 
is that I'm going to start this morning for Dil- 
lingham University in Nebraska, where I'm go- 
ing to teach Greek till June." 

Every one opened his eyes wide. Even Erics- 
son looked up from his paper with a questioning 
scowl. 

"Why, my dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Mar- 
koe, who usually found her tongue as soon as 
the next one, "why didn't you tell us before? 
Half your things are in the wash, butthen I sup- 
pose we can telegraph them" — 

"I think John has the floor, as we used to 

J 83 



UNTAUGHT BY 

say at the State House," Mr. Markoe observed. 

"I'm afraid I must be going," said John, look- 
ing at his watch. "I should have told you before, 
mother; but I didn't know until after you had 
gonetobed.Good-bye,father!Good-byemother! 
Good-bye, every one!" 

"Good-bye, my boy . I trust you won't be so re- 
miss in letter writing as whenyou wereabroad." 

"Good-bye, my dear, dear child! I can't bear 
to have you leave us. Do be careful about" — 

"That'll do, Lydia. He can't hear what you're 
saying. Good-bye, John ! You're well out of this 
hornet's nest." 

"John, as you go, would you mind stopping 
at the apothecary's and telling him to send up 
another box of quinine pills?" 

"Braceupwith this idiotic leave-taking, John, 
or you'll lose your train." 

"I saw you left your meerschaum pipe, John. 
Can I use it while you're gone?" 

"Why, John, Cora Sanderson's going on the 
same train. You can talk to her all the way to 
Pittsburg." 

Time passed slowly at Dillingham Univer- 
sity. John had several enlivening disputes with 
the head of his department, Professor Calthrop, 
as to the meaning of some Homeric appella- 
tives, but the professor was a Greek student of 
the old school, and Markoe hardly considered 
him worth fighting. John had his freedom, and 
enjoyed it at first: his life reminded him of his 
life at Halle ; but he missed the Professors' Club 
at Philadelphia. He missed Knobelsdorf, too; 
and often, as he sat at work late into the night, 
he would look up almost hopingtoseeHeinrich's 
honest face bending over a book at the other 
side of the table, partly obscured by a great beer 
J 84 



EXPERIENCE 

mug which the young German always kept in 

front of him. John did not write home regularly : 

he never had done so; but he did occasionally, 

— and he received a scattering line of letters in 

reply. 

1225 HEMLOCK ST., PHILADELPHIA, 
March 6, iSgi. 
Dear John: 

I want to tell you about the absurd time we had here last night. . . 

Do you know that this ridiculous family, or rather some of them, 
are already pretending that they miss you ? Your mother I think per- 
haps really does, though I never listen to her long rigmaroles, and 
she may be cursing you for aught I know. But you ought to see Mary ! 
She says the shock of your going was as if something had strained 
up her nerves very tight and then suddenly loosed them. I wish she'd 
try us with the shock of her departure. To hear the family conversa- 
tion, any one would think that you had been a kind of cherub that 
every one doted on. The Honorable Father Peter, while rebuking 
poor little Laetitia, intimated that you might not have gone away if 
she had been able to talk more reasonably! 

Here I go, slandering them all. Very likely they're all pitching 
into me in their letters to their "dear John." I wish I could see some 
of those documents! 

Your foolish old 

AUNT MARION. 

Dear John: 

I'm awfully sorry you went away — and I hope it was not at all 
because I was such a little fool — at least every one says I am. 

Robbert Enfield came yesterday afternoon and took me to drive 
in his spider phaeton — I had to look up that word in the dictionery 
— with two of the S^VEETEST little sorel horses you ever saw I Mam- 
ma said it was all right because, you know, he's our third cousin. 

I'm going to be Romola at the Renaissance ball. Ericsson said 
he didn't believe I knew who she was. I said yes I did — she was an 
Italian — so he got left. I knew because Romola sounded like Rome. 

Your affectionate little sister, 

LAETITIA. 

1225 HEMLOCK ST., PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
My dear son John: 

. . . and should you go to Lincoln, be sure to call on the governor. 
When you tell him whose son you are, I think you will find that I 
am not wholly unknown to him. 

We all miss you, myself most of all. I was quite mortified last 
night. We had Prof. Longfield at dinner (the celebrated chemist, as 
you are, I presume, aware), and as he was very silent I was obliged 
to take most of the conversation upon myself. The talk, out of com- 
pliment to our visitor, naturally turned on chemistry, and I am thank- 
ful to say I was competent to make a few observations on the sub- 
ject, as I took a course in that study when I was in Cambridge. If 
you had been with us, you might have drawn the professor out. Erics- 
son, as you know, has some sense, but is — what shall I say ? — hardly 
sympathetic 

J85 



UNTAUGHT BY 

Trusting to see you at Mt. Desert in the now fast approaching 
summer, I am 

Your affectionate parent, 

PETER ERSKINE MARKOE. 

PHILADELPHIA, Thursday. 
My own dear boy: 

I miss you every hour, every minute of the day, and I hope you 
think sometimes of your poor old mother. I am counting the days 
until summer comes and . , . 

I sat up a good deal last night with poor dear Mary who has had 
another of her ill turns. The poor dear child, I sometimes suspect 
that she isn't quite so ill as she thinks she is, but probably I am wrong. 
At any rate it is hardly the part of a mother to think so . . , 

I must tell you about the Renaissance ball. Laetitia was lovely. 
It was magnificent, and I must go quite into detail about . . . 

I almost think Robert Enfield means something by his attentions 
to Laetitia. I know you hate gossip, but I MUST tell you what Mrs. 
IngersoU said about . . . 

Dear me ! Here are twenty-seven closely written pages ! But be- 
fore I close I want to tell you what . . . 

There! I must stop. Good by, dear boy! 

Your lovingly affectionate and devoted MOTHER. 

PHILADELPHIA. 
Dear John : 

There was the devil of a row at the club last night. Monty Everett 
struck Ericsson in the head, and old Rick turned on him and hit him 
about ten blows in succession — good hard ones — you know the kind. 
Monty was paralyzed and fell on the floor and couldn't stir. I guess 
he wont tackle Rick again in a hurry. Rick was nearly arrested, but 
the fellows hushed the thing up. I think the trouble was that Rick 
called Monty a blackleg and a swindler or something. 

Things are pretty slow here. There isn't much to tell. 

Bob Enfield seems to be kind of stuck on Lydia. 

How do you like Dillingham ? We all miss you like thunder — 
honestly. 

By the way, can't you possibly lend me fifty more. My club as- 
sessment's due in two weeks, and I haven't got a cent. I'll pay you 
next month, or half of it, anyway. 

Your affectionate brother, 

\A^ALTER ANDERSON MARKOE. 

PHILADELPHIA, April 14. * 
Dear John : 

I am dictating this to Laetitia, as you will see by the handwriting, 
for my right hand is so closely bound up in bandages that I cannot 
write. Yesterday a considerable swelling and redness appeared on 
my middle finger, and as it seemed to grow larger, I feared it might 
grow into a felon. I sent to my new doctor. Dr. Busnach, and he did 
up my hand for me. It is something of a trial not to be able to write 
or sew. 

I write to congratulate you on your birthday, which mamma says 
is on the eighteenth. It is a great trial for me to have you away, for 
I think you are the only member of the family who really sympathizes 
with my sufferings, though your blunt manners often make it seem 
otherwise. 

J86 



EXPERIENCE 

Walter has become much more insulting since you left us. He 
was more afraid to be rude when you were here. Now he is unbear- 
able. I sometimes wonder if courtesy to ladies — I have given up hop- 
ing for sympathy — has entirely gone out of fashion. 

My headache bids me end. I wonder that it has let me do so much. 
Letty, too, complains of a headache, but you know what the aches 
and pains of the hale and strong are to those of the invalid. 

I have just been revising this myself. Letty had spelt "sympa- 
thizes" "simpathyzes." This is written with my left hand. 
Your affectionate sister, 

MARY MARKOE. 

MAY I. 
Dear John: 

This is to tell you that I'm engaged to Rose Wainright. 

Yours, 

Ericsson markoe. 

These letters had a good deal of effect on John. 
Not that they altered his opinion of his family; 
on the contrary, to his almost morbidly acute 
powers of judging character each letter was a 
window through which he could see the writer 
and all his peculiarities. But the letters persuaded 
him, what he was often inclined to doubt when 
he was staying at home, that the family was 
really fond of him. This made a great change 
in his thoughts. Good qualities which had hith- 
erto been partially concealed, perhaps only by 
bad manners or unfortunate habits, appealed to 
him now that he was half the width of the con- 
tinent away. He had not known what to expect 
when he was in Germany, and he had painted 
too rosy a picture of his family and their family 
life. If he should ever live at home again, he 
wouldknow just what to expect, and taking each 
member of the family circle as he was, need 
never be disappointed. In Philadelphia he had 
thought of his talkative mother as a person who 
talked too much. In Dillingham he thought of 
her as his mother. 

Perhaps John would have been happier at 
Dillingham if he had been at a good boarding 
house; but with a characteristic recklessness he 

J 87 



UNTAUGHT BY 
had agreed to room and board for the remainder 
of the year at an establishment where the food 
was uninteresting and the company unconge- 
nial. He could not help looking back with some 
regret to the eatables at 1225 Hemlock Street, 
where Ericsson's brutal comments kept every- 
thing up to a high grade of excellence. John had 
a small room, too, so small that he had to keep 
it in some degree of order, and could not toss 
about his books and papers into the delightful 
confusion that had characterized his room in 
Philadelphia. He was not at all sorry when reci- 
tations ended and examinations began. Several 
days before the end of the term he wrote a let- 
ter to Heinrich Knobelsdorf. Two weeks later 
Heinrich sat back in the big armchair of his 
father's study at Nuremberg and opened it. It 
read as follows : 

DILLINGHAM, NEB., June 5, 1891. 
Dear Heinrich: 

Forgive me for not writing in German ; but I have lots to say, and 
I can't bother with your confounded Umlauts and Handschrift and 
the Lord knows what. 

It would make you laugh to see the letters I have received from 
my family since I came out here to Dillingham. You would think 
that they all doted on me. You can judge from my letter of some 
months ago (which I think was a trifle exaggerated) that they were 
not quite so fond of me when I was with them. Yet now Mary has 
found out that I am the only person who really appreciates her suf- 
ferings. If it is so, I tremble to think what a contempt others must 
have for her trials. Meanwhile father lets me know that he misses 
my sympathetic personality as an entertainer of his guests, while 
Walter honors me with a request for fifty dollars, though only three 
short months ago he assured me that I was so mean about money 
matters that he would never borrow from me again. 

And yet, Heinrich, — I know you won't like what I'm going to say, 
but I may as well be frank with you, — and yet, I think I misjudged 
my family while I was with them. Things at home seem brighter 
when you look at them from such God-forsaken surroundings as I 
am now blessed with. Mother, at least, is, I am sure, as affectionate 
and self-denying as an epicure in mothers could ask for; and if ever 
I have been irritated with her, I fear the fault has been more mine 
than hers. Laetitia, too, — I wish you could see her letter. A more 
loving little sister doesn't exist. And the others— I don't mean that 
they're perfect: I know what they are well enough; but why should 
they be perfect? I'm not. If I had only been willing to take them as 
they were, as I should another time ! Even Ericsson is well enough, 

188 



EXPERIENCE 

if you keep out of his way: and besides, he's going to be married 
now. I was always looking for qualities in them which they didn't 
possess. One doesn't gather grapes of thorns, nor figs of thistles, 
nor good manners of Ericssons, nor politeness of Walters. I don't 
see why anything a person says or does should irritate you, if you 
know he's the kind of person who says or does things like that, and 
prepare yourself accordingly. 

You remember that in my last letter to you I agreed in the main 
with your conclusions as to the undesirability of a number of grown 
people living together. But three months of life in a prairie college 
have changed my ideas. Did it ever strike you that your view of the 
case was a rather selfish one ? For a man to leave his own family and 
go off to live alone somewhere, just so that their blunders and fool- 
ishness sha'n't jar on his delicate sensibilities, seems to me pretty 
near the essence of selfishness. And you live at home yourself! True, 
you have only a father and a mother. But why should I not exert 
myself to keep the peace between the discordant elements of my 
unfortunate family, instead of leaping among the others, as I fear 
I did last year, like a newspaper dropped on a wood fire ? 

With all this in view, I intend to spend this summer with the fam- 
ily, and also next winter, unless I have some much more desirable 
position than this one offered me. I am quite certain that I shall be 
able to get on very nicely with them this time. 

I have a kind of presentiment that I have not been able to convince 
you. You never have approved of me when I did anything silly, — I 
did not mean to write that word, but I scorn to scratch it out, — what 
I mean is vacillating. To conclude, I have made up my mind, and I 
hope you can bring yourself to agree with me. 
Always your friend, 

JOHN PETERSON MARKOE. 

Heinrich finished the letter and then tore it 
into fragments. 

"Fool!" he muttered, stamping on the floor 
so that the room shook. 



A BRICK BLOCK 



Eight small brick houses, standing side by side, 
Eight flights of steps, narrow and long and 
steep ; 
Different dimensions: all nineteen feet wide; 

Some forty-two, some forty-three feet deep. 
Each with a curved bow- window and a dome ; 

So much alike that children in their doubt 
Must count, poor things, to know which house 
is home ! 
A curious thing to write a poem about! 

And yet, inside, are men as wise as we. 

And happy, though with little cause for mirth. 
To each, his nineteen feet by forty-three 

Seems the important corner of the earth. 
Each has his secret tears, his open jest: 

Each has his pride in the brick cell he calls 
His Home, and, somehow, knows it from the 
rest. 

Those narrow rooms are his ancestral halls — 

His little universe within four walls. 

These men give plays, lifelike beyond belief. 

Whose actors really live and really die. 
So full of nonsense, and so full of grief. 

One scarcely knows whether to laugh or cry. 
Here some Antonio mourns his unpaid debt; 
There a real Shylock counts his darling 
hoards. 
Here a real Romeo sighs for Juliet. 
Think what great sights this little block 

affords. 
Eight first-class Shakespeare's plays are on 
the boards ! 



The lover cannot see. His dancing eyes 

Detect no fault, no ugliness, no sin ; 
His sweetheart's house seems fair as Paradise 

Because he knows his sweetheart is within. 
I too am growing blind. I cannot see 

The ugly house-front or the narrow stair. 
Those unknown friends are very dear to me, 

And, as I gaze across the dingy square, 
Eight homes of those I love are standing there. 



SIX STORIES AND SOME VERSES 



ROBERT BEVERLY HALE 



^t 



» 



/>' 



2184 



^^ 

























■^^4 



s 



■CO '/^. 

"/>_ ' * - ^ > , V I a , 



a\ ^ o s c ,^ /' 



-^^ 






A 



^-. ^ '^^ ^ ^ " ^ "'c- V s ^ ^1' '/ -- 









>V 



"^ ■^. 



cP- 



^^ O^" 



^&. 















^^ T 



■\V 



A 



■^. ' 



•^ 



../ 



' 












:-:>^i 



1^ % 






\' 









-\- 






v>; 



'""^V 

A 









-S 



=^-\. •;■ 



A 






"^-^^ 



^^■'^ 






v^" -^^ 



O 



"-- ,y 



CP,vJ 












^/^.. 






V * s ' ,0- 



A O. 1 



= 00'^ 



^^':^>^;'.;\ ^^ 






^^^^ 






%.^^' ; 



V 



■X^ 



.#' 












X^^ "^0^^ 



,0- 






^'^^ 









.V 















.0 r, 






^^■* 












. ^^^' 

'^%- 






o. 












.^0^ 












0' 



00^ 



N ^ / ^- 



\^ 






:'-f 



v-^/. 





% 


/ 




•^" 


•>- 


\ 













^■0- 






•^;r> K^' 



.A 






0^" ,0 



■^00"= 






,0 o 



^^ 






ci-. 



^0^ 



xO^ 



.^■f 









.V 



■^/^ V' 



-A. -r, 



•^^ 
."'^; 



1 ^ '• vV 















